


Dragon Age One Shots

by IntrovertedWife



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Awkward Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Persons, Napping, Pain, Secret Crush, Sex, Short & Sweet, Unrequited Love, everything and the kitchen sink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 56
Words: 95,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntrovertedWife/pseuds/IntrovertedWife
Summary: I've been adding lots of short stories to Tumblr recently and wanted a chance to share them here for anyone who doesn't have tumblr, or hates reading there.Here come all the Dragon Age one shots!





	1. Alistair's First (Sweet/Friendship)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Space_aged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Space_aged/gifts), [LadyGoat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGoat/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during DAO, Alistair comes back from patrolling the campsite to a surprise.

Alistair wandered into the campsite swinging around a stick he found while patrolling the perimeter. It was a good stick, a solid stick with a proud lineage, a strong profile, salt of the earth stick. He particularly liked a branch at the gripping end to protect his hand should any darkspawn appear out of the ground when he has to use the little boy bushes. He glanced over at the campfire, expecting to find Leliana or Zevran standing beside it. Maybe Oghren chortling that if he pissed all over the stones they'd catch fire.

Only shadows danced beside the flames. Odd.

"Hello?" Alistair called, twisting his head. Where was Wynne? He dashed over to the tents, trying to politely knock on her door with the stick, but no one inside called for him to go away. There was no hulking Sten lurking in the shadows.

Or... Alistair pursed his lips and whistled, "Come here boy. I have a lovely stick for you to chase!"

The dog was never far from her, and never away from camp. What was going on? The hairs began to rise up his neck, Alistair twisting in a circle armed with only his stick. There wasn't even any sign of Morrigan. Normally, he'd consider that a blessing from the Maker, but this time it only added to his panic.

Where was she? Where were any of them?

Did darkspawn take them? Was there an attack and they didn't think to call for him? Surely Tessa would have shouted for his help. At least found him sort of useful, if anything as a meatshield.

Why was he alone?

A burst of smoke erupted from the darkened copse of trees. As Alistair turned towards it, a dozen voices rang out, "Surprise!"

Tessa emerged first, her hands wrapped around a plate holding a lopsided cake. Behind her came every other missing face from the camp. The assassin waved off the last of his vanishing smoke, his hands slotting into his armpits as he managed to look even smugger than usual.

"Surprise?" Alistair gasped, frozen in place.

"I had nothing to do with this," Morrigan snorted while emerging from their odd game of hide and seek. Her cold snake eyes cut over him before she turned and stalked back to her tent on the edge of the camp.

"With what?" he was still lost.

Tessa called out to her, "But you're going to miss... Ah, never mind."

"You were all playing a fun game of surprise Alistair? Which involves hiding, then shouting, then cake?" he guessed, his eyes skipping over to the companions remaining.

"No, silly," Tessa tried to jab an elbow towards him even while she held tight to the cake, "It's your birthday. Surprise birthday, you know."

Alistair's jaw dropped open.

She hefted up the baked good towards him, "The dog got you a cake. But it was half eaten, so we got you another one. I hope you like it -- strawberries and cream."

"You..." he was stuck in place, glancing from the smiling assassin to the humming bard, before landing upon the hulking qunari.

"I am only here for the cake. I see no use in celebrating one's own birth. You had little to do with its success," Sten said.

"Ah, ignore him," Tessa waved at the grumpy qunari who scowled, but true to his statement remained close. "Well," her soulful eyes burned into Alistair's, "go on..."

"Go on what?" he gasped, both hands clinging tighter to his stick.

"You know..."

"No," something small inside of him went ping, "No I don't, because I've...ya know, the dogs don't see fit to throw parties. Probably because they don't keep their own calendars. Plus, it's really hard to bake when you're stuck with only paws."

Their pet mabari woofed at that.

"True, there is always stealing one off a windowsill, but mine were devout Andrastians. Stealing is a sin." He wasn't smiling, but gritting his teeth in a false grin. Most people didn't spot the difference.

"Ali...?"

Tessa wasn't most people.

She stepped so close her voice was barely a breath, her warm hand clinging to his arm, "Have you never had a birthday party before?"

"Oh, sure I have in a, it's...ah..." No. Bastards didn't receive gifts, didn't have all their family and friends gather together to share in lavish cakes. Templars weren't going to hang crepe paper and sing silly songs. His day of birth was the same as any other on the calendar.

Her hand soothed up and down his arm, "The birthday boy gets first cut of the cake." Tessa's dulcet tones and soothing eyes lifted his old heartache and gave it a good shake. "But you better give the second to Sten. It was like moving a mountain to get him to agree to hide."

Alistair snickered, "Got it." With Zevran's offered dagger, he cut himself a generous slice, red filling oozing from the center. "Thanks everyone," he called, raising his slice up as if toasting, before jamming it all into his mouth.

It was hard for him to say if the cake tasted good. In truth, it could have been flavored with ash and mud but all he tasted was pure sugar. The joy in his heart sent his tastebuds and the rest of him singing, and he knew who he really had to thank for it.

She was busy helping the others get their cut, no one about to turn down free cake. But, as if sensing his eyes, she turned her head and smiled warmly. "Happy Birthday, Alistair," Tessa said. Leaving the plate in Sten's capable hands, she wrapped her arms around him and plucked a kiss to his cheek, "May it be the first of many more to come."


	2. An Answer (Spicy - M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas is surprised by the Inquisitor a few years after he's left her.

Solas' eyes fluttered open, his body rising from the desolate ground while the impossible happened. Even as his mind denied it, his heart recognized the silhouette tugging away his tent's door and sliding inside.

"Inquisitor," he gasped, shaken from his errant slumber as she...how could she be here after all this time?

"Shh," her gracious hand reached through the air, barely glancing against his lips, "Vhenan."

He had much to explain, to confess to her -- his heart heavy with the full truth. It almost slipped his lips in the grove, his old world nearly physical around them. But to watch her eyes turn cold to him, to lose all respect from her. He, of all people, could not go on without that. So he chose anger instead. Loss. Hate over the far more debilitating fear his past would uncover.

How was she here after his betrayal? How was this possible?

The night shifted around her, fading to reveal her perfect skin freed of the marks of bondage. Her hand pierced through the lonely air, warm fingers curling to his cold jaw. Solas' ever watching eyes closed tight, his very being leaning into that one touch. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan," he whispered the words forever locked upon his tongue. It was he who walked away, he who could not own his mistakes while in the corona of her being.

"I know," she said. Solas whipped his head up in surprise only to fall into her unending eyes. Perfect. There is no gemstone in this thedas that could compare. She crossed the space between them, her arms entwining around his chest as she pressed her lips to his ear. "Be with me, Solas."

"You do not know what you ask," he shook his head even as a thrill took control of his spine. Even as the coward inside the Dread Wolf tried to scamper away, his hands enveloped around her lithe body -- fulfilling every dream he dared have since Haven.

Her teeth grazed against his earlobe, Solas tipping his head back in exquisite agony. He hungered for her, for all of her in every way she'd give, but he didn't deserve her either. It wasn't right of him to ask.

A warm breath twirled through his ear, her words pregnant with need, "I know you."

Their lips locked in a kiss of more hunger than he'd ever known in his lifetime. She tasted of honeysuckle and clover, of a spring meadow by a crystal lake. Of his long held denial dripping through his fingers, freeing him from his imposed shackles. With each thrum of her hot tongue, he forgot himself. Why did he hold himself apart from her? From this?

Solas' hands, no longer bound by the chasteness he chose, ripped apart her leathers. The human garments she wore day in and day out while trying to correct his mistake tumbled to the ground. By the glow of an impossible light, Solas stared at what he could only picture in his mind's eye.

"You are," he brushed his forehead to hers, "more beautiful than I ever imagined."

Her lips, glistening from his kisses, lifted at the edge. It was a smile all her own, one of accomplishment, of prestige, of surprising a jaded man into believing beauty was still possible in this dead world. He would have confessed the truth, all of it for her smile, dropped to his knees and begged for her forgiveness.

"Be with me, Solas," her words echoed themselves. She was beautiful the way the moonlight off an assassin's blade is beautiful. More striking than the glint of sun rays through the forest glenn landing thrush upon a halla's wintery coat. Powerful. Strong. Dangerous.

And not only to her enemies.

"I can deny it no longer," he gasped, his hands cupping the pert breasts he tried to put from his mind. Her lips claimed his, his Vhenan's hands stripping away every fur he decorated over his body. He treated them like mantles of war, trophies to declare himself worthy of this coming fight. But in his love's hands they were proven for the truth -- childish ribbons worn by a man who believed he had nothing to lose.

She paused, her palms parting over the ivory sweater. Each caress sparked his skin, the fire emanating from the very center of his being. This was how she met him, how she saw him. A lone elf wandering the woods, a scholar, a quiet man who could not keep his eyes off of her.

It was how she knew him.

It was how he wanted her to always know him.

"Emma sa lath," his tongue was freed along with his mind. With eyes closed and heart open, Solas brushed his forehead to hers while whispering, "Know me, Vhenan. Know all of me."

"Gladly," she smiled.

He feared to be naked around her, that she'd read upon his stripped flesh all the buried secrets. But his Vhenan drew her succulent lips to each battle scar fought in a war millennia past. Her fingers kneaded into muscles forged in the fights of her ancient ancestors. Not once did she blink, not once did she ask.

Solas prided himself on being patient when called for, slow to act in all matters. But, in that moment -- after years of denial -- he could hold no more back. Greedily ripping the last of her clothes off, he paused for a breath above her pristine body. There were no scars of war, no blemishes from fire or ice. No burns of lightning to deform her flesh.

She was perfect.

Drawing her legs against his waist, her taut thighs gliding against his sinewy hips, he entered her. The first thrust caused a gasp to escape from her throat -- the same sound she made when he stepped away in the grove. When he proved to be too much of a coward to live up to what she deserved.

He would not make the same mistake twice.

Fingers digging into her glorious backside, Solas increased his tempo. The gasps in his love's throat changed, panting not in pain but ecstasy. She drew her hands to his cheeks, pulling herself to him for a kiss. He tried to return it, to focus on anything but the fire threatening to consume him whole, but her lips kept slipping away. His love's pants of pleasure dashed down his throat, warming his soul.

Aching for both release and connection, Solas tipped her down upon the bed of his wolf pelts. Her hair spilled out like a halo, every thrust of his body into hers causing her breasts to bounce, her skin to glisten like the fade was once again inside them all.

"My love," he gasped, feeling himself step to the edge. "I'm sorry."

"I know," her moans entwined with his, both rocking back and forth to the pleasure of their bodies. "And," tears burst in her perfect eyes, "I forgive you."

His crescendo tipped into an explosion, Solas' head bowed in recompense even as he filled her. She forgave him. She shouldn't, there was none in this world who would. But...she did. She could.

Rising from the bed, her arms enveloped Solas' weary brow. How long did he carry it bent with the souls of elves he tried to free and even more that he damned? The crown of bricks was going to crush him one day.

"Be with me," she repeated a third time. Her hot lips pressed to his head, palms raising his stricken face. She had to see the truth now. There was nothing left for Solas to hide behind, no half lies and subterfuge. It was all of him before her: the young elf and scholar who talked to spirits. The warrior who stood up against the gods themselves. The traitor that destroyed Arlathan.

"Come back with me." She didn't run from him, didn't hurl him aside in hatred and fear. She wanted him.

She forgave him.

"Solas..."

Abandon his plan, live with her. Love her. Why was he destined to carry the souls of the dead in his heart? He tried to save them, he did what he could. Let someone else carry the flame. Let the burden fall elsewhere.

Lifting his head, his eyes staring directly into her unending depths, he said, "I..."

Solas' eyes fluttered open and he rose alone inside of his tent. There was no one else, there would never be anyone else. His arms enveloped himself, trying to preserve the vanishing heat of her body. Her taste drifted on his tongue, her meadowy scent clinging to the cold wind. He could have had her, in both the physical and emotional sense. And it would have been...

"Thank you, Cole," he whispered to the wind. The spirit was lurking, watching, but unable to appear here. Solas feared what Cole, in his need to heal, might reveal to those in Skyhold. To one in particular.

 _Did it help?_ floated through Solas' mind.

Even with his path set, his steps shored, the question would not leave him. What if he returned to her arms? What if he had not left at all? What if there was still a chance to be with her?

He had to know the answer.

"Yes," Solas spoke aloud. His fingers glanced over his lip, a glisten upon the tip, as if it was wet from her kiss. "I have my answer."

_She doesn't._

"She will soon," Solas promised to his old friend. Rising from his tent, Solas gazed across the small army at his disposal, eluvian glittering in preparation of what was to come.

"Fen'Harel," a blonde woman leapt to her feet, summoning the others. "What are your orders?"

She'd take him back. As foolish as it sounded, as dangerous as it could be, she'd let him toss off his mantle. Disrobe the title of god and become what he always ached to be -- a man in love with a woman.

In truth, Solas always knew the answer. He merely hoped, for her sake, that he was wrong.

"Lieutenant, we attack the Qunari at dawn." Solas was dead, he died when his orb cracked in half. When the weak fool ran from the only chance at happiness he could have ever had. Fen'Harel gazed over his followers, "It's time to put our plan into motion."


	3. Learning (Spicy - T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and a Dalish Warden have a bit of fun in the forest.

Eyes open.

Not that Zevran had any intentions to wander around in a dark forest with his eyes shut and hands scraping against all manner of slug infested tree rot. But, it was a good reminder none the less. Don't want to slack off, not even for a moment.

He hadn't heard anything for what felt a mile, only the occasional sigh of the forest from fluffy bunnies and squirrels skittering through the leaves. When he took another step into a small bracken-free section, all noise stopped dead. Even a proud city elf knew what that meant.

"I know you're here," he crowed to the air. His fingers itched to reach behind to his daggers but that might tip his hand. Best to play it nonchalant until the perfect moment to strike.

Rustling rose in the trees behind. Zevran spun on his heels, watching a person sized section of leaves rattle almost as if someone was running through the branches. And she acted like this would be a challenge. Chuckling, Zev finally told his hand to reach back for his dagger.

Something gripped tight to his elbow locking his hand to his shoulder, when...a cool edge slicked straight over his throat. A lifetime of practice warned Zevran to hold his breath, the razor sharp blade bounding close but unable to slit his skin.

Shaking off any tremble of surprise in his voice, he said, "Nice dagger."

The hand holding his elbow spun him in place, Zev coming eye to eye with green stripes tattooed over a pale face. He'd never considered how the Vallaslin hid a person in the forests, but even staring directly at her his eyes would water and she'd blend into the world of woods and greenery.

"Well?" the Warden didn't drop her blade, the tip still pointed at his neck, but she stepped further away.

Zev took the opportunity to bathe his lungs in air, his cheeks slightly reddening. He hadn't heard her take a step towards him, hadn't heard the blade draw, hadn't sensed her heat. She moved like a jungle cat in this world and it was intoxicating to witness.

Lapping his lips with his tongue in thought, he extended his hands in surrender, "You were correct, dear Warden. I did not stand a chance against a Dalish in the woods."

Her smirk was worth his momentary embarrassment, the woman of leather and leaves sheathing her dagger. "Told you," was all she'd cut back with. She wasn't a woman of many words, but that was all right. Zevran was more than happy to make up the difference.

"How were you able to shake the trees, yet appear instantly behind me?" he asked, taking a step closer, then another. "Better question still, will you teach me to do the same?"

She lay her palm against his chest, but didn't put any force to it. His chest lifting in breath raised her hand and she seemed fascinated with it. "I could," she said, still touching his pec, "but it would take much training. You are very loud for an elf."

"Only when unending enthusiasm is called for, I assure you," Zevran smiled and he watched a tinge of ink swirl around her green tattoos. "How long would it take?"

The Warden's hand drifted off him, thudding to her side without a single jingle of her armor. "A lifetime," she shrugged.

"Then, it is a good thing I have already pledged mine to you."

"I suppose so," she couldn't argue with his logic. "First lesson," her hands shook out tension, "vanishing up a tree." Faster than he could blink, she twisted on the ball of a foot, and launched her second into a knot on a tree. Her hands dug into the bark, and in four blinks she truly disappeared into the foliage above his head.

Zevran tried to pierce through the coverage, his eyes hunting for any shadows large enough to be her, but he was coming up empty. This was ludicrous she had to be here somewhere.

Spinning in place in confusion and growing concern, he nearly leapt backwards when her smiling face descended through the branches. Her hair reached down to the forest floor, Zevran eyeing it up, when her hand cupped to his cheek. The dangling woman in the trees pulled him to her until their lips met in a hungry touch. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, Zevran able to do the same to her. Tongues danced in their own pirouette, heat pouring through his veins.

As the Warden gave up the steamy kiss, she kept a hand on his cheek, "Come on up already," her husky voice called to him, "so I can show you what else Dalish do in trees."

"I'm going to really enjoy being your student."


	4. Daddy (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested a Dad Cullen short and this is what came out.

“Ethan, don’t touch that,” Cullen ordered to his eldest. The six-year-old’s fingers snaked away from the hissing frying pan, but his eyes were full of mischief. Just like his mother.

“I wasn’t gonna,” the boy insisted, despite his father easily seeing through the lie. To back up his claim, Ethan scrabbled up onto a stool overlooking his father’s final preparations. “Whatcha doing?” he asked, as he had been asking for the past twenty minutes.

“You know the answer,” Cullen responded, scooping the last of the slightly burned eggs onto a plate. There was something he was missing… He hunted around the ransacked kitchen, hoping the answer would appear by magic.

A pop resounded through the air, followed by the squeaky voice of his youngest, “Daddy said no!”

“You’re such a tattle tale, Laila!” Ethan scolded the three-year-old while once again removing his hands from the tempting frying pan. She shoved her thumb back in her mouth while the other hand cuddled the nuggalope tight to the chest of her nightgown. Ethan too was still in his pajamas, the sleeves being dragged through the floury mess Cullen left on the counter.

He should have dressed the children before starting, though then they’d have simply covered their day clothes in slop. There was also the matter of time ticking away faster than he anticipated. There was no chance he’d be on time now. Rushing about the kitchen covered in bowls, pots, and pans, Cullen darted around his two children who were more road blocks than helping hands.

“Am not!” Laila shouted at her brother, her words muffled by the thumb. “Am I Daddy!”

“No, Lay, you’re not,” he answered automatically, barely listening to his children bickering. There was something he was forgetting. Something he forgot about in the…

The scent of burning fat struck his nose along with realization of what slipped through the cracks. Grabbing up a towel, Cullen yanked open the oven door. Sad, nearly blackened crisps of bacon were all that greeted him. Damn it. Maybe if he hid them under the eggs she wouldn’t notice?

Anger bubbling in his veins, he hurled the wasted food onto the counter, the tray crashing from the force. He reached for a glass, prepared to accept the more or less failure, when a heartbreaking wail rose from behind him.

Cullen turned just as Ethan’s tiny hand dropped the cast iron frying pan, the boy screaming in pain. Fear ransacked Cullen’s body, the pins stabbing into his flesh, seizing his heart cold, and his lungs collapsing in his chest. “Ethan!” he cried, watching gigantic tears slide down the baby cheeks.

His boy wailed, “I didn’t!” while trying to back away. When his spine bounce against the door, he froze, flexing his fingers in pain.

Not caring that his orders were disobeyed, Cullen plummeted to his knees to wrap comforting hands under his boy’s injury. “Let me see…” Ethan tried to yank his fingers free, as if Cullen couldn’t see the sting of pink where he picked up the pan’s handle. “Here,” digging into a case stashed inside the cabinets, Cullen unearthed a brown salve.

As he plopped the burn-soothing unguent onto the vengeful red sting, Cullen gasped, “What did I tell you about touching the pan?!”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan mewled, “I’m sorry, Daddy. Don’t be mad. Please. I didn’t mean to. It hurts so bad!”

Cullen’s arms wrapped tight to his injured boy, tugging him against his chest. While the burn-induced tears slowed in his son’s eyes, Cullen’s rose. He felt them with every bump and bruise his children earned. They were little daredevils, all thanks to their mother, stumbling and curious in a world that so easily struck back. It hurt Cullen to bare witness to each cry from the cradle to now.

“Dad?” his son asked.

“You should…” Cullen pinched off his tears, cupping that small hand in his own. “Bandage it.”

While he wound the white linen around his boy’s salved palm, Ethan asked with tears still in his voice, “Are you mad at me?”

“No.” He should be. Look at what the boy did! Disobeyed. Injured himself! It could have been worse.

But it wasn’t.

“Just swear to me you won’t do that again,” Cullen knotted off the bandage and looked directly into his son’s eyes. The mischief, the ever present orneriness that looked as if it could take on a would-be god vanished. In its place was the fear few saw, the crushing concern of what would happen should she fail. He was so much like his mother.

Ethan gulped deep, his cheeks stained in tears. Bobbing his head, he promised, “Mkay.”

It was the best Cullen could hope for. He laughed a moment at the child’s answer, when even tinier fingers tugged on his shirt. Spinning in place, he watched as Laila yanked her thumb out and demanded, “I need b'ndige too!”

With a chuckle, he pulled his daughter to him, her blonde curls flying from the tug. After placing a kiss to her forehead, he said, “Very well.”

In the end, Laila got a wad of linen wrapped around her head because there was a very bad boo-boo there no one could see. Cullen scooped up what little of the cold breakfast he could manage onto a plate, and the three of them crept towards the master bedroom. Ethan was up on his tiptoes, the pain of the burn forgotten in the excitement. He was even trying to help Laila onto her toes, his hands wrapped around her sides to hoist her up.

At the door, Cullen counted with his fingers to his children. One. Two. Three. Shoving the door open fast, all three dashed inside. The woman in the bed pretended to open her eyes as if she’d been sleeping, her hand cupping to her mouth in surprise.

Together, the little family shouted, “Happy birthday!”


	5. Thirst (Angst/Comfort)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries to help the Inquisitor get off of lyrium. Born from the fact there are special conversations a templar Inquisitor can have with Cullen.

"She needs our help!"

Cullen closed his eyes rather than follow Josephine's insistent jabs towards the Inquisitor. He needn't look to know her frail body was twisted in knots, sweat pouring from her sallow skin as she clung by her nails to the bedsheets. He needn't look because he knew far better than the other two advisors staring in concern.

"I shall have a fresh vial brought up immediately..." Josephine moved to wave down the stairs to one of her runners. His hand lashed out to grab her wrist, turning the lady ambassador's wrath upon him.

"You will do no such thing," Cullen's voice rumbled from the pits of the void, which reflected only a tenth of the pain she was trapped inside.

"Commander?" Josephine said, ready to chastise him, but he released her hand. "She is in agony."

"I know," he whispered.

"We should lessen it at least. A small sip of..."

"This was her choice!" Cullen shouted, his words echoing from every inch of the mighty Inquisitor's bedroom. Every corner where they'd steal a kiss before joining the real world. Every edge where he'd hold her tight, bury his nose in her hair, and pray she'd return to him.

A groan from the depths of her wracked body broke his exile. His eyes -- always on the hunt for any danger to harm her -- fell upon the woman torturing herself for freedom. Dear Maker, how could he agree to this? Let her put herself so close to death, because...because...

Tears dripping from his eyes, he whispered, "Corypheus is gone. She doesn't need the lyrium any longer. She wants to be free of it."

"Is it her choice or yours?" Josephine hissed. His fist curled up, but not in anger at the kind-hearted ambassador wanting to rescue his love. It was at himself for standing against the only balm to aid her.

"Josie," Leliana, who'd remained quiet in the shadows, wrapped a hand around her friend, "he is right. She did order us to let this play out."

"And if she dies?"

His foots stepped away from the bickering advisors. It'd seemed easy at first watching her ween herself away. A few days where she'd get light headed, maybe suffer a headache didn't seem so bad. But this was when the real trial began, on the cusp of freedom as every vein in her body sang for lyrium. If only she could make it through tonight...

He drew a wet cloth over her fevered forehead, trying to wick away the sweat that smelled intoxicating. Her body was purging whatever drops remained inside. The scent that both repulsed and ensnared him grew stronger than ever before. Cullen wiped off her arms, taking care to not touch too strongly. The skin felt as if it were on fire when the withdrawals grew to these depths.

"I will not allow that to happen," Cullen pronounced, his eyes swinging to Josephine and Leliana. "No matter the cost."

"Understood, Commander," their Spymaster bowed her head. Josephine wanted to argue, wanted to help her even if it would undo all the hard work to this point. He paid no heed to them leaving the Inquisitor's bedroom; his focus was only upon the woman he loved fighting for her life.

"I'm sorry," tears drenched his cheeks, "I should have stopped you. Told you not to..." Why didn't he? Why didn't he throw that cursed templar trainer out the second he caught sight of him? Why did he allow her to become as chained as he'd been?

"Cu-ul-len?" her once songbird voice scrabbled like a rat in a cage, fingers clawing the air. He caught one and pressed the palm to his cheek. "It hurts," she moaned. "It hurts so bad." In every trial placed before her path -- from Haven, to Adamant, to the Arbor Wilds -- he'd never heard her whimper so. As if she'd already lost the battle inside herself.

"You have to fight," he ordered her. "Fight through this. Fight the thirst, the pain," his words drowned in tears, his lips pressing each one to her cold palm. "Please, fight to see the dawn. Fight with everything inside of you!"

She gave no answer to his words, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she fell into a tormented sleep. Moans punctuated each breath, her chest struggling to rise for air. He was torturing her, the woman he loved more than anything, because...because he feared losing her.

Leaning down, Cullen placed a kiss to her fevered forehead, as well as a promise, "You are not alone."

 

* * *

 

She woke thirsting for an ocean. Trembling hands battered into the pitcher beside her bed, only the dim light of the fireplace guiding her. It wasn't until the Inquisitor got a long drink of warm water down her throat that she caught the silhouette of a man in prayer.

He took up vigil right before her bed, a knee planted into the hard rug and hands forever clasped to the Maker. Rousing all the strength left inside of her wracked body, she slid a foot to the floor then another. Pain jarred from the tips of her pinkie toes up to her eyebrows, but she endured. With a single hand outstretched, she guided herself to the lone guardian forever watching over her.

As her palm skirted against warm fur, then down to find the scruffy flesh below, a gentle moan broke from his hopeful lips. It took another moment before the man who'd no doubt been awake the entire night shook from his waking sleep. His face turned to follow her arm, and she nearly gasped to find tears clinging in his eyes.

"Cullen?" she breathed, terrified of the abject sorrow in his eyes. He looked as if the cruel hand of the Maker swept away everything he ever cared about. The man was nearly pushed to his own breaking point and all because of her. How could she be so callow?

"You're...!" he swiped at the tears in his eyes, then leapt up from his prayer. Arms of strength and certainty bowed around her, tucking her forever safe into his embrace. "I was so..." he cried, his tears staining her neck as he buried himself deeper into her.

She tried to hug him back just as tight, but her energy was spent. All she could do was limply cling to her buoy in the choppy sea.

"If you hadn't have come back, if I'd...I was so afraid," he mumbled against her. The only man in her confidence to know what she had to face, what she had to climb, and to refuse to let her give up.

"I couldn't," she cupped her hands around his cheeks, needing to see his amber eyes in hers. To know that this wasn't some trick of the fade. "I couldn't give up," she gulped, her soul laid bare before him.

At that moment, streaks of rose and orange light scattered through the window. The pair turned to the rising sun, their smiles lifting with the new day. "I had to see the dawn," she whispered to him.

Cullen kept a hand locked around her as both limped towards the balcony. A breath of mountain air cooled her ailing body, slicking away the sweat of addiction. Inside every vein, every pulse of her heart she tasted it: freedom.

But it wasn't over just like that. Even with her system purged, it was there, lurking like a crocodile in a river. The thirst tried to scrabble up her tongue.

"What now?" she asked, her face turning to greet the sun as if she were a flower pleased to find a returned lover.

Her guardian, the man whom she entrusted with more than this promise -- who held her heart -- wrapped his hands tight around her. He too took in a breath, having to clear his aching chest from the cobwebs of doubt.

Laying his cheek beside hers, he whispered, "You fight to see the next one."


	6. A Friend In Need (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Born from a prompt asking for "Cullen comforting his best friend Delrin, after Delrin's wife went missing. (She gets found in the end with happy reunion and if you write that reunion too I would be excited... but above all else, I want to see Cullen comforting a friend in this stoic way of his."

"Any word?

Cullen paused, his conviction evaporating as he watched Ser Barris lean closer to the long drop from Skyhold's walls. The once proud head hung low, his armor knotted from the unending stress heaped upon his shoulders. If he answered, would he push Barris to a deadly extreme?

Weary, broken eyes turned from his gaze over the drawbridge to the wincing Commander. "Ser?"

"No," Cullen coughed out the truth. "There were no signs of her in..." The report from their scouts in the frostback basin died upon his tongue. Templar gloves dug into the stone of Skyhold, wrenching it to grit as if Barris was trying to strangle the truth from the bones of thedas. No answers would come to him, the rock as silent as the wind.

"Two weeks," Barris' voice trailed off, eyes lifting to the scar in the sky. "Two weeks and nothing."

The Commander flinched at tears not only in the Knight-Commander's words, but streaking down his cheeks as well. For the first days of her unexplained disappearance, he was often in the war room hurling out ideas, suggestions, directing his men to aid in the search. As the day turned to weeks, and the mettle melted from his spine, Ser Barris' steps haunted the battlements of Skyhold. He'd skip meals, forgo sleep, all to maintain a vigil upon the door never knowing when she'd walk through it.

His widow's walk.

"The chances of there being an answer grow slimmer with each sunrise," the mourning man moaned. Below them, a battalion of horses broke into a trot out the gate. Yet another expedition sent to find the woman who seemed to vanish into thin air. "I keep thinking," Barris' lips trembled, the words gutted as more tears fell, "that I must gird myself to find only an empty body and nothing more."

"Do not think that," Cullen said. "We haven't scouted the entire area. There are a lot of hidden caves, brush to obscure scouts. If she fell, or was injured, then it might take longer to..."

"Ser," Barris paled so sickly his skin turned qunari grey. "Two weeks, about to be three. If she was injured then... If she fell, the only ones who will find her are scavengers." Voicing the fear that'd lurked in all their minds since the first report, giving it substance, drained the fearful man of what he had left. He turned away, his bowed head trembling, the tears silenced from the void.

"Delrin!" Cullen cursed his name as if he was blaspheming. "Look at me," he thundered, striding towards the man. Still, Barris wouldn't turn, not until Cullen strapped an arm over his shoulders and forced him to. "You cannot give up, not now. Not like this."

"Why? Why fight? Everything I try to...the Order, my love, gone. Taken while I...while I slept. You know it as well as I do what it is to lose...everything."

Friends ripped out of their own skin. Blood of companions smeared over the walls. Bodies so burned he couldn't know who they once were. Colleagues twisted until only a sliver of their humanity remained below the red lyrium. The Order he swore his allegiances to ripped apart from scheming and unabashed lusts for power. He knew what it was to walk into the darkness, certain that light would never touch him again.

He wouldn't let Delrin suffer the same.

"The fight is not over, soldier," Cullen tried to puff his chest up even with the ache growing in his gut. He knew the odds. "She is out there somewhere, she needs you to find her. To do whatever it takes to pull her back here. Do you hear me?"

The heavy head rolled to the side, Delrin's shattered eyes trying to hone on him. "Three weeks..."

"Can become four, or five. We won't stop. You won't stop. Trust in her to fight. Trust in yourself to fight. Pray to the Maker, pray to Andraste. Do whatever it takes to bring her back home. Do you hear me?"

"Ser..." the man's weak voice tried to lift, but his gut was stone cold.

"I said 'Do you hear me?'"

"Ser, yes Ser," Barris stood up taller, a spark rising inside. It wasn't much, but it was all Cullen needed. The man moved to salute, but the old Commander wrapped him in a hug before he could accomplish it.

"Hope, cling to it. Pray for it. Do not let it go out," Cullen ordered his friend. Their arms opened, Barris trying to snuff away the tears of despair. Before he could slink off to lick his wounds, Cullen reached out to grip his arm. "Your light will bring her back."

 

* * *

 

 

"Get out of the damn way!"

A cacophony erupted near the drawbridge, everyone racing to crowd around a wagon, but none could stop the Knight-Commander rushing as fast as his legs could carry. Ser Barris practically hurled the onlookers to the side, his hands reaching out through the void when warm but weak ones caught the tips. The templar crashed to his knees, prayers and tears falling in equal measure as his wife tugged his hands to her lips.

Cullen watched from the worn down widow's peak, his hands crossed for warmth under his surcoat. In the end, it took four weeks, a raven's bones bearing a message being the big break, and a campsite hidden in the mountains. Though, the details didn't matter. Husband, who fell to his knees on the stone for a miracle, was gifted it. Wife, battered and bruised but alive, returned to his arms.

The old Commander smiled. It was nice to have a happy ending.


	7. Boyfriend (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian prepares to meet the Inquisitor's parents.

“Announcing Lord and Lady Trevelyan.”

Dorian swallowed a cleansing breath, his boots nailed to the floorboards directly beside the keg as he watched his Amatus’ parents descend the stairs. This had been coming for months, Josephine worrying herself grey over orchestrating every second of their trip to perfection. No one wanted to disappoint the Inquisitor.

He took another drink, a sloe black eye trailing his lover dashing up to envelope his parents in dual embraces. No doubt they were exchanging typical child and sire pleasantries, “Yes, I have grown.” “No, I do eat my vegetables.” “I am quite content with maintaining my current endeavors without your intervention, thank you.”

There was much more laughter than Dorian expected pinging between the trio. The Inquisitor’s father was a near replica of the face he fell in love with. Age would be kind to his Amatus, which was about the only consolation to Dorian for this charade.

“Dorian?” the Inquisitor’s voice cut over the others milling around trying to get a peek of where their beloved Herald sprung.

Another half a pint chased down Dorian’s throat, the _evil Tevinter Magister_ trying to drum up enough liquid courage to attempt this. He’d agreed in a fit of drunken pity, his Amatus offering to fall to his knees to sweeten the pot. Despite giving in, because he was a weak man, Dorian could see no reason to bother.

His steps carried him across the emptying hall, Dorian wrapping his body in every piece of insouciant armor he owned. The Inquisitor would introduce him first to his mother. She would stare at the stranger, maybe inquire as to how they know each other. His Amatus would hem and haw, perhaps call him a companion – that word worked well to hide the friendly lie. The father would frown at Dorian, the back of his brain tickling at the implications. But he would shake it off, dance the same steps of denial. No doubt the man already had plans on which unattached ladies to tie his powerful and famous son to. 

He’s a friend. A buddy. A mate, not for mating. A fellow warrior. Nothing more for you to concern yourself over.

It never changed. Dorian’s lips lifted in a smile as he stepped in beside his secret lover, close but never too close to raise suspicions.

“Mom, Dad, this is Dorian” the Inquisitor slid a hand around Dorian’s waist, “my boyfriend.”


	8. The Cat and The Wolf (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has an unexpected visitor.

His brush drew the final strokes of the shadow, Solas stepping back to try and realign his perspective. He'd been so focused on the minute he nearly forgot how that one piece fit into the entire mural. As he glanced higher to take in the scope, he heard a rattle above him.

Someone was upon the scaffolding in his room. Crossing his arms, he turned to confront them, just as three drops of green paint descended from above. The first struck the ground before his bare foot, the second on top of his head, and the last landed in a globbed stain upon the middle of his chest. While wiping off the dot of paint on his head, he turned to glare down at his sweater forever marred.

An older woman, hands gnarled from a life she didn't own, spun her last ball of wool and gifted it to the Dread Wolf. She wanted him to keep it safe, to remember her life in its threads. Slowly, as their world unraveled, as he ripped free every pretense of godhood from the world, his followers knit for him this sweater. Which was now stained by whoever found this kind of behavior hilarious.

"Sera..." Solas growled, his eyes narrowing to hone upon the scaffolding. She didn't confess, nor did she leap down to laugh at the sight of him covered in paint. "You cannot escape my notice," he warned her.

Movement rattled old brushes soaking in turpentine, Solas drawing closer. A spell formed on his fist, nothing too painful, when a head coated in brown and white fur poked itself over the edge.

"This is surprising," he said aloud, shaking away his attack. The cat stretched upon the razor's edge fall, its partially bobbed tail wafting too and fro to keep it steady. "What are you doing up there, cat?"

He didn't expect an answer, but disconcerting yellow eyes bored into him. Part of the left ear was notched, and a scar ran down the length of the old cat's face. A fighter. Perhaps it was hiding in here to lick its wounds. Or waiting for its next chance to attack.

"Would you be so kind as to get down?" he asked. A foolish thought, cats did not care to do what they were told. Much like gods in that fashion. They took what they wished when they wished it, and demanded praise for their wanton ways. Idolization. Worship.

To his continued surprise, the cat scampered to the edge of the scaffolding and leapt. Its pain coated paws landed upon his sleeping divan, small prints in shades of green and red trailing the creature. The cat paused just before Solas' feet, its eyes staring up at the Dread Wolf, while the nobby tail twitched in contemplation.

"You see me for what I am, don't you," he spoke to the judgmental eyes. Turning over his shoulder, he took in the half painted mural of the Inquisitor's last accomplishment. "Do you see the mural or the line?"

The cat mewled, stretching its limber body long against the floor. Bending to his knees, Solas kept his hands to himself even as he watched the animal roll around to scratch its own back. "Do you tire of the fight? Have you tried to find succor where none would expect you to hide? Do you hope for peace to fill the gaps left behind from your absence?"

He reached forward, tender fingers bouncing into the cat's head. When his nails found the spot, the cat leaned into him, using his fingers for a free scratch. A rumble rose from deep in the creature's gut, the soothing purr bringing a smile to Solas' lips. He couldn't remember the last time he'd stopped to simply pet an animal.

A bird of bright plumage, colors no longer seen in this drained world, landed beside him. It watched same as the cat, eyes of a haunting blue wondering what that bald elf was doing. For a moment, he'd let his fingers wander from his path, curling against the downy feathers. Peace. Serenity. It was what he'd hoped for.

So he chose to end the reign of the gods. To free the people from what their own fervid beliefs created. The bird took wing before the veil erupted from his trembling hands to coat the world and change it.

He meant for it to be better.

Rising from his crouch, Solas turned to face the wall. It wasn't the line he stared at, nor the mural itself. The wall, a fortress, a mountain, a country, a world. All of it in shambles because he created a void and they filled it with pain.

Heat brushed against his shins, Solas' eye drifting down to find the cat circling his legs. With a smile, he patted his shoulders and commanded the cat, "Up."

Paint prints trailed the cat's climb, red and green tracks circling Solas' back as the animal nested upon his shoulder. It drew its face against his, the scar of war scratching upon his chin. The animal purred relentlessly, finding a kindred soul within this world -- the cat who followed orders, and the wolf who followed none.


	9. Broken Hope (Angst)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a fic request where they wanted "How about Zevran's reaction when he hears the female warden he foolishly distances himself from to keep safe from the crows impulsively gets engaged to another warden? please?"

"Well, this is a surprise," Zevran emerged from the shadows his hands lightly clapping as if he'd only just arrived at this Vigil in the woods that the Wardens reclaimed. In truth, he'd been watching her for...longer than was strictly necessary. His intel had been good, though the person providing it was less so after Zevran left him.

Still, he wasn't certain that he wasn't walking into a trap laid by those crafty Crows until he saw her. The woman walking with head high, assured steps, and cold tone gave him pause until the winds shifted, and the scent of lavender and honey nearly threw him against the wall. It was her -- the Hero so much of this cold, turnip-filled country loved to call her. She was something else to Zevran, something so much more.

As those eyes that'd once melted in his vision honed from a razor glare to wide-open surprise, he tipped his head and grinned, "For you, having the opportunity to once against bask in the glow of my company." He tried to gaze past her, to take in the new ragtag team she adopted circling around her, but it was impossible. Even in the darkest of nights, Zev couldn't escape the glow of her firefly eyes. Being trapped in the recesses of his memory did little to diminish them.

"I see you still have the dwarf," he twisted his lips, trying to hold in a sigh at the flatulent beard rolling a war axe from one shoulder to another. In response, Oghren gave a burp loud enough to shake the Vigil's windows. Zevran merely sighed in response.

"Zev," her lips parted, her face white as a sheet. His dear Warden looked as if she'd seen a ghost. "What are you...?" Her head twisted around to her companions, three in total. It seemed as if she was hoping they would support her should the need arise. Or at least to make certain she hadn't lost all her senses with the appearance of an elf from her past. It seemed routine, but her eyes lingered upon a dark man standing a touch closer to her warm body than the others.

She tried to swallow down the shock, a smile rising in its place. It wasn't a truthful one, but he wasn't one to judge. He left her on a lie after all. "I did not receive word that you were planning a visit," his Warden answered.

"Yes, ex-assassins who are trying to keep from winding up on a Crow's blade are not fans of calling cards. Forgive me if I am interrupting anything..." he waved his hand around the men who were imperceptibly itching for weapons. All except the dwarf; he'd already wandered off towards a cask in the throne room.

"Ah," she touched her cheek, Zev's eyes following to watch a blush burning over her silken skin. "No, no," the Warden turned to take in her men. "Could you give me a minute with him?"

"If he starts stabbing, just scream. I'll probably come running," the tall blonde human in circle robes chuckled, trailing after the dwarf's imbibing. It was the dark one who remained, hovering over the Warden's shoulder like a protective spirit.

"Are you certain?" his voice rumbled in his gut, grey eyes cutting over the unimposing elf merely out for a stroll.

She winced, the tension so thick he doubted he could cut it with his dagger. Turning on her heel, she leaned closer to the dark man, her voice dipping low, "Yes, please trust me, Nathaniel."

"Very well," he smiled at her, but it snapped to a sneer as his eyes once against brandished against Zevran. The threat was clear. If he dared to lift a finger against the Warden, an army would land upon his head. As if Zevran could do anything to hurt her...again.

The two of them stood not close, but not apart either, watching the burly men wander away from their sight. "I see you're bringing in strays yet again," Zev said. "Is it a habit of the Wardens or only you in particular."

"Why are you here Zevran?" she whispered, her eyes shut tight. As if she couldn't look upon him. Not again. Not after how he left.

The sarcastic wit melted, its vinegar dripping down the back of Zev's throat. "Perdonami," he whispered, hoping she'd hear the sincerity in his voice. "I...I clashed with the Crows who yet had a contract on your head."

Her eyes squeezed tight, that lovely face that once laid beside his head constricting in pain. "And..." she gulped, fingers clenching tight to her arms. She was an animated speaker, often touching and caressing others with her delicate fingers. Now, her entire body was closed off, cold. Terrified to touch him.

He did break her heart, even if he had to crack his own to do it. "And they are in rather fine pieces at the bottom of the sea. You need not worry about them any longer."

"Thank you," she breathed, looking none too pleased with his pronouncement nor his existence. "But you could have told me that in a letter."

"I know," he smiled forlornly, "my penmanship is delightful." She didn't laugh at his jibe, didn't shake her had until her hair shimmered in the firelight. Her eyes were as closed off to him as her heart. "Amore mio..."

"Zevran," she breathed broken glass, her eyes wincing with his name.

"I come before you, humbly begging for your forgiveness, once again. Do you wish me on my knees? I will. Both here and in the bedroom. You only need ask," he reached for her hand and to his surprise she let him take it. His palm soothed over the top of her fingers, each roll of his callused pads against her twisted grip reminding him of their parting words.

_"You can't do this!"_

_"You knew what I was when we met. There is no heart beating inside an assassin's chest."_

_"Zevran...I swear if you leave!"_

_"I will not darken your doorstep again, my dear Warden."_

He meant it, or so he convinced himself. The only way to keep her safe, to chase the Crows from her tail, was if he scattered to the winds. If he let her live her life with her Order of Wardens slaughtering darkspawn and raising armies in the woods she would be free. He was nothing more than a danger to her life, because she'd have come with. Forgotten all she fought for, abandoned everything just to...to die at the end of a Crow's blade. Zevran's heart, as misplaced as it seemed, could not have handled such a fate. She deserved better.

And he was a coward.

"It was a mistake," he felt himself crawling closer to tears. The fall of friends, loved ones, even watching his heart face down an archdemon alone hadn't moved him so. But standing here upon the abyss, praying that she let him keep her hand, was undoing him. "One I regret to the core of my being. Please! My beautiful Warden."

"Zevran," she gulped, her head rising. The warm hand slipped from his, dangling against her side. "It isn't that simple. You left, you told me you would never return."

"I hurt you, I know. I understand. If you must hurt me in return, I promise to not enjoy it too much," he was trying to smile, to get her to return it, but her gaze turned over her shoulder. Her eyes that once cared only for him landed upon the dark man.

He too was watching her, the pair in synch enough that at her glance he disengaged from his sulking corner and walked toward her. With each step, Zevran's mind pieced together the details. How he hovered over her shoulder, how she leaned back towards him. How their hands nearly brushed over each other in a hold that didn't need to be physical to exist.

With each realization falling into place, his heart cracked.

The Warden reached over through the space between her and the dark man. Her hand -- that she'd once entrusted to Zevran's keeping, the hand he refused and walked away from --wrapped around the dark man's fingers, tugging him closer. "This is Nathaniel," she said, her voice steady, "my fiancé."

He knew it before she had to speak the words. How the dark man doted upon the woman in his grip, how the light danced in his eyes whenever he looked upon her. How Zevran was once afforded the same opportunity this man could adore.

"Good," the assassin spoke only lies. "That's wonderful. Congratulations are in order."

"Zev," she glanced up at him, her eyes trailing away from that man she entwined her life with to forget. To wipe away whatever they once had like a stain on her soul. To forget how he broke her heart in trying to save his own. Turnabout was fair play. "I'm..."

"I know," he interrupted, forcing on a smile, "you're sorry that I cannot stay longer. While I would adore to bathe you in my sparkling company, I'm afraid that the road calls to me."

Her face softened, gratitude rising upon her beautiful cheeks. Nibbling upon her lip, she nodded, "Thank you."

"Congratulations, once again," Zev reached over to pick up her hand and shake it. His last touch was bestowed upon the same hand that saved him, that lifted him from the ground and into her willing embrace. This time the fingers parted, scattering that incredibly handsome but temperamental assassin back to the winds.

"I wish you all the love you deserve," he whispered to her, his smile both of pain and joy. Then his eyes cut over to the fiancé. "And you best treat her right, or you shall not survive the consequences."

Nathaniel forced on a grin as if it was all a joke, but Zevran sneered, "I am not kidding."

With all his best laid plans broken inside his chest, Zev turned to step back into the cold. Alone once again. But for a breath he turned, watching as the woman he adored stood framed by the firelight. Her haunting silhouette molded against this other man, one who would never run from her out of fear. As the two shared a kiss about to become an eternity, Zev whispered, "Please, be happy."


	10. Summer Heat (Extra Spicy - E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and his wife get extra steamy on a hot summer night.

"I'm so sweaty," Lana kicked at the blanket that'd been smothering her, sending the last of it tumbling off the bed. The man beside her, who'd been partially swaddled in the thick fabric, twisted onto his back and groaned.

She tried to turn, hoping for a miracle in the form of a breeze breaking through their open windows, but nothing. The night was still as death, and the air sticky as honey. "Why is it so hot?" she whined, swiping her hands over her forehead to try and clear away the beads of sweat, then against her chest. There was even more hidden below her cotton nightie, her skin so coated it wasn't glowing but radiating.

"Yes, hot in summer," Cullen grumped, fully flipping onto his stomach and burying his words into the pillow, "Who would have thought it?"

A cool eye cut over to the man -- the husband no less -- sassing her back, but she let him fall back into his own sweat-soaked sheets. Twisting her left hand around, Lana raised a cool orb in her palm. Cold as a winter's day, she pressed the edge of it to her chest, then back around her neck.

"Merciful Maker," she sighed, the heat that'd been omnipresent for days finally breaking from her skin.

"Are you...?" the man she thought rolled over back to sleep, rose up on his palms. His head twisted, all the curls mashed to one side from the humidity clinging to his strands. Cullen eyed up the blue and white orb pulsing light and relief against her fevered skin. "Using magic to deal with a simple summer night?"

"Hmph," Lana snorted, drawing the orb over the top of her cleavage. There was no subtlety in how Cullen's gaze trailed the cooling touch wafting over her décolletage. "See if I'll offer you any," she finished with before skirting her orb down her arms. Her moans turned nearly orgasmic as the permeating heat was finally chased away. The chill swept so quickly across her body, the sweat drops froze into tiny icicles.

Her unimpressed husband reached out to skirt his fingers over her bare arm. With his touch, the icicles melted to a gentle rain slicking down her skin. Cullen watched each drop beading down as it raced to tumble into the crook of her elbow. "I don't," he whispered, his amber eyes aflame while traversing across her sienna skin glittering with icicle stars. Two fingers reached through the space between them, both landing upon her collar bone.

As he drew them lower, serpentine sliding towards the swelling breast below, Lana gasped. From the pressing fever of summer, to the chill of winter, his body heat transformed her cooled skin into the perfect caress of spring. Those two fingers became three, then four, and finally all as he dipped down the lacy edge of her nightie and curled a palm around her breast.

Swooping under it, Cullen lifted the weary cup higher, his thumb brushing against a dark plum nipple that ached more from his ministrations than the chill. Lana tried to play coy with her husband, rising up into a sit to draw her palm down her legs. He watched her tug on the almost knee-high hemline, exposing her thigh and the top band of her smalls.

Amber burned through the blue light of magic, daring her to keep touching herself. With a smirk, Lana pressed her palm directly onto the top of her thigh. Her head snapped back and she groaned from her cooling core.

Famished fingers swept down under her bodice and, without a care, lifted both her breasts free from the nightie. They barely tasted the stifling air before Cullen's lips lapped around one and honed in on the nipple. He wasn't about to leave the other alone for long, his palm caressing it, playfully melting the icicles until they dribbled down Lana's ample bosom. 

"Maker's sake!" she groaned, shifting back and forth on the bed. It creaked from her light thrashing, the posts bouncing into the wall behind them. 

With his tongue extended, Cullen circled from the bottom of her breast up to the top, lapping away the last of the chill and leaving her core flaming hot. Lana couldn't catch a breath, her lips panting even as she kept drawing her hand up and down her thighs. Crystals of frost formed over her kneecap, the chill trying to claim her, but it didn't matter. Her body ached for him to melt every damn inch of her.

"What about here?" he asked, his lips breaking from her skin. With a tender caress he drew his palm against her pubic bone and let his fingers tap just against her lower lips. Blighted void! He curled the tips up enough to thrum one after the other against her clit. "Why aren't you cooling here?"

"Because," she was losing this battle fast, the man expertly pinching her nipples in just the right way. Not too hard to cause pain, but hard enough to dance close to the line and erupt a volcano of pleasure. Swallowing down another gasp of ecstasy, Lana said, "Only warmth touches there."

Amber burned in her eyes -- a dusky, primal need rising in her husband's shadowed face. He stared with an unending hunger into her eyes, into her soul. She barely nodded before his strong hand lashed onto the bottom of her panties. Knuckles swung inward, bounding against her lower lips and causing Lana to cry in surprise and pleasure. With a feral yank, Cullen tugged the smalls straight off of her. She watched their tumbling trail off the bed, when the roaring heat of a man launched over her body. The knees bounced in tight against her thighs, Cullen fast to straddle her.

His cock pierced through the blue glow of magic, Lana spotting the tip emerging from the shadows between them. She gasped as he drew it down her barely there cotton nightie. "Andraste's grace!" she cried, so glad her husband preferred to sleep in the nude.

She reached back with her hand, trying to palm his taut ass, when Cullen's fingers snapped out of nowhere to wrap around her wrist. He grabbed the other holding the spell and stretched both down to the bed astride Lana's head. She stared into the unspoken abyss burning in his eyes, her lips quivering to take a taste, but he had her fully under his control and she loved it.

Squirming to get him to tighten his grip, when those fingers formed a vice, she gasped in ecstasy. Lana moved to close off the cold spell, when her husband's husky voice breathed, "No, keep it on."

He bent to her, his cock laying flush against her stomach as his lips molded around hers. Heat from their mouths, more inflamed than anything the weather could imagine, drew her deeper into his abyss. She tipped back, Cullen brushing the edge of his teeth against her jawline, down her neck. He scrunched up his abs to lap one more taste of her breasts. 

The ice was gone, all of it shattered from her body begging for more heat. For more fire rising up her spine from between her legs. A knee knocked into her thigh, sending the leg wide. She was about to move the other, when Cullen did it for her. Before she could catch a breath, he straddled himself in the perfect position and thrust in fast. 

"Blighted Maker!" Lana cried, her core liquid fire as it greedily embraced her husband. The hands clamped to her wrists shoved her deeper into the bed as he began to thrust. There was no gentleness of slipping off during a spring rain, no tenderness of a session while the leaves tumbled from the treas. It was primal, pure heat of the sun burning through his loins into her. And she loved it.

Her ankles wrapped back around his ass, the heels digging into the muscles flexing with each thrust. The bed began to bounce into the wall, rocking their famished bodies harder with each pulse. Cullen's body lay even lower, the sweat of his chest slicking over hers, the smell of him overpowering her. Hunger, need, the sharp musky scent of man. She tried to bury her nose into his neck to take a deeper whiff, but he held her tighter.

"Maker's balls," she cried, trying to hang on. Her wrist pulsed as the ice spell began to shift to fire. The fade knew what she wanted, that her body was in a fevered state of ache. How it'd do anything for a release.

He smirked, the bastard actually smirked, his lip scar lifting to highlight it as he stared down at the woman he loved crumbling to dust. Shoving forward with his knees, he raised her ass off the bed and his cock found purchase against the best buttons inside. Whatever grip she had on reality shattered, Lana crying incoherently as her inner core erupted into sparks. 

Lightning crackled on her fingers, threatening to strike the man still inside her. The man savored her vagina clamping tight to what brought her such pleasure and refused to let go. A moan rolled around in his throat sounding of a tiger's roar just before it pounced. His eyes darted over to watch the purple snapping electricity.

"I take it that's good?" he asked, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

"Ye...yeah," she gasped, surprised she could talk.

"Good," Cullen repeated. He let go of her wrists and slid himself out. But before Lana could ask a question, he hefted up her body and spun her around until she sat on her knees. Pressing her back flush against his chest, Cullen once again bundled her hands behind her. His great palm was able to pinch both her wrists together in one hand as he guided his cock right back to where it belonged.

"Oh fuck," Lana cried, the back of her head bouncing against his chest as he thrust into a far tighter grip than before. Her dangling fingers bounced between her ass and Cullen's stomach, the tips nearly touching the shaft thrusting in and out of her.

Digging his knees into the back of hers, Cullen leaned back, taking her with. They tipped to 45˚, his hips not pausing for a second as his free hand curled up to her breast and pinched the nipple tight. With every scream of joy from Lana, he'd tug on her arms and thrust himself deeper. Orgasms pinged inside of her at an unstoppable rate. The moment one would dissipate, he'd drive another from her.

All the while, he remained obstinately silent, tugging and stretching her to his whims as she hung on for the ride. When he pulled her hands lower, she reached with all her might to grab onto his balls. "Blighted hell," Cullen gasped, Lana massaging them in her grip.

"I..." his breath came out in spurts, the thrusting ramping up to an inescapable speed. The hand fell from her breast to cup her stomach, keeping her pinned in place as he bored her out while his jewels bounced in her palm. 

"I...can't...any longer!" Cullen cried, the fury slowing to a flicker, as he finally let himself tumble into an orgasmic bliss. This tight she could feel his semen washing up inside her, the throb of his happy cock pulsing with each shot. It was warm as lava.

Gasping for air, Cullen released his grip upon her and staggered back, looking dumbstruck. She rubbed her wrists and spun to stare into his eyes. The wild abandon was replaced with a shocked serenity, his overpowering glare now a slap-happy smile. She nuzzled under his arms, Cullen locking both around to hold her tight.

"Bet you won't make fun of me for using magic ever again," she laughed, her body safely swaddled in his sticky embrace.

"N-n-no," he gulped, "I don't think I will."

She laughed again, nuzzling her cheek against his tuft of chest hair. Wrinkling her nose, Lana complained, "You're so sweaty."


	11. Alistair The Mouser (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short story about Alistair as a kid.

"Boy!" the shadow standing in the doorway shouted, hands on hips and mean glares into the stables.

He locked both his hands tight to his mouth to keep from making a sound. Don't laugh. That always gave him away. No way she'd see him. He ducked deeper into the straw pile, holding his breath. Just like when he fell into the pond. Teagan jumped straight out of his boots when he leapt from the water, mud suckered to nearly all of his body. That was a fun day.

"This isn't funny!" the voice kept shouting. "You leave on the morrow. I know you're in here!"

Nope. Nobody in here but us mice. He squeaked a few times, hoping that'd be enough to throw her off the trail. Most didn't bother to track him down, unless he was in trouble. And that one time was just the kennel master who was tired of Alistair sneaking treats to the mabari pups.

"Makes 'em go all soft," he'd grumble in his gruff voice. Wasn't so happy when Alistair stuffed a towel down his shirt, stuck his new belly out, and waltzed around the pups ordering them to be, "Tough and strong!" He got a real scolding for daring to 'imitate a man vital to the running of...' blah blah blah.

"Fine!" the woman sent to track him down gave up. "I've got washing to do anyway!"

He waited in his itchy hiding spot, trying to listen to the stomp of boots. After counting to ten Minrathouses, he risked peeking out, the straw scattering off his head to give him a view of an open door. Freedom.

A slow smile filled his cheeks, Alistair rolling out of the straw. He shook his arms and legs, trying to scatter the itchy stuff from his clothes, but it stuck. Looked a lot like a scarecrow. Ooh, maybe that'd work. Stuff straw into his cuffs, then hide out in the fields. Scarecrows were important, did important work. Had to keep scarecrows around.

His back bounced against the wall, the splayed out arms falling to his side. No way did he want to stand in a hot field all day pretending to be a statue. There had to be something better, something he could add to the 'delicate balance' of the place so they'd keep him.

Rustling from the side caused Alistair to duck to his knees. It wasn't Eamon come to cuff his ears, but one of the mouser cats. Leaping from the floor, it landed on one of the stall walls, green eyes glaring into his. Speckled tan and grey fur coated Fat Bastard, so named by him because the cat had a belly that dangled past its knees. It's parents weren't married neither, so it fit good.

"Pussy puss," he cooed at the kitty, scratching along its face. Ooh, he could become a mouser. Stay in the barn, chase after mice, and lay them out before the Arl to prove he did a good job. You couldn't get rid of mousers, you needed 'em. That was what they told him that time Fat Bastard sunk his claws into Alistair's neck.

"We bastards gotta stick together," he whispered to the cat who was tiring of his tiny nailed scritches. It meowed once, unimpressed, and leapt down. Waggling its tail, Fat Bastard -- like everyone else -- abandoned him for the warmth of a sunbeam outside. He couldn't go out there. They'd find him, drag him to that shiny man's carriage, and hurl him inside.

No, best to stay here. Learn the mouser trade. They couldn't be that bad to eat, cats did it all the time. A grubby hand that hadn't seen water nor soap in a week curled over his stomach. It was getting extra grouchy after all those skipped meals. Mousers didn't need to eat in the kitchens, they did it on their own. They were lone wolves!

He didn't want to go. To leave behind all this... Alistair encircled the barn that stank of horse shit. What would they make him do at the chantry? Stand in place all day like a scarecrow? Be quiet so no one would see him? So no one would even know he existed?

It wasn't fair. He didn't want to, but he never got what he wanted.

"Alistair! Come along, son!" the Arl was shouting for him now. He was wearing his fancy clothing because there was visitors. Because Alistair was supposed to be on his best behavior.

Slinking further down, Alistair wrapped his hands around his skinny body. Out of the straw he'd been trampling in emerged a small grey body. He tried to leap out to catch it -- to prove his worth, to show he needed to stay -- but the mouse ran far faster than he could reach and vanished through a hole.

Maybe if he became a mabari! Running through the fields, flushing birds and rabbits...


	12. Blood (Sweet)

"Ouch!" Hawke flinched, trying to yank her hand away from Anders grip, but he held on.

"Stop fussing," he sighed, growing weary with the grown woman fighting him on every move. "I have to take this...what is this?"

"Bar towel," she shrugged, her striking eyes catching upon his weary ones and nearly lighting the flame inside. But then she caught sight of Anders unwinding a no doubt ex-Hanged Man's towel from her hand. A bloom of scarlet coated the stained rag, causing Hawke to shudder.

"What's wrong?" he asked, finally reaching the deep gouging Hawke gave to her poor finger. It was amazing it was still attached. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes to heal up. Give me a minute to..."

Anders thought that'd soothe Hawke's concern over losing her finger, but the woman was stark white and trembling. Her eyes kept glancing anywhere but the wounded hand he held in his healing fingers. "I don't," she gulped, her entire face screwed up in terror. "I don't like blood."

An ungentlemanly snort erupted from his nose, "Since when?"

"Since always."

"Hawke, I myself have watched you rip through dozens of Kirkwall gangs while walking your dog," he was gobsmacked, forgetting he should be pulsing healing magic through her finger which had mostly stopped bleeding.

The woman who always carried a massive great sword on her back, even while attending weddings, shrugged. "So? They started it."

"You've stormed how many blood mage covens, often crammed with people who decorate their walls in viscera?"

"That's different," she gasped, her eyes risking a peek to her torn up finger before returning right back to the nothingness but filth that made up his clinic's wall.

Anders began to pulse magic up her hand, knitting the flesh back to where it belonged even as he spoke, "Fought a rock monster demon, a dragon, then two more dragons for sport. Head butted the Arishock, for the love of Andraste."

"But," she partially winced at him laying out her accomplishments, "it's not the same, okay. It's my blood! I don't like the sight of my blood oozing from my flesh. I get all woozy and maybe vomity. Okay?!" That same unstoppable will that sent the Arishock home in pieces glared down at Anders and he quickly dropped his line of thought.

"All right, all right," he finished wafting his healing magic over her finger and wound a fresh bandage over it. "Your skin will remain sensitive for a few hours, so I suggest keeping it covered, but should be good as new."

"No more blood?" Hawke asked while twisting around the wad of linen on her hand.

"No more blood," Anders sighed.

The larger-than-life woman wrapped both her hands around his waist, pulling him to her lips for a kiss. "I love you," she laughed, right back to her usual sorts with the wound tended.

He curled his palm to her cheek, forever surprised at how easily Hawke bandied about her affections. "I know," Anders said.

Letting him go, Hawke -- who no doubt had some other important mission involving splitting open bad guys from nape to navel -- dashed for the door a moment, but paused. "When you're done here are you gonna head back to the mansion?"

"I think so. Why?"

She grinned wider, "I'm making a fancy dinner tonight." Suddenly Anders understood how she managed to nearly flay her own finger skin off the bone.

"Maybe leave the rest of the chopping to Bodhan," he said. "I wouldn't want to have to patch you up twice in one day."

The warrior and champion snickered, "I've got it under control. Oh, and FYI, it's a pantsless dinner party. See you later, love!" Hawke bellowed to anyone sitting around in the sewers. 

He was a rebel mage, an abomination with a spirit of justice in his head, but no matter how long Anders lived and, how much he saw, he would never understand that woman.


	13. Isabela the Duelist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a weird idea to write a short story where Isabela is a pirate/duelist in the streets of 17th century Paris.

In the bustling theaters and bordellos of Paris, ruled a fist far finer than usual. While francs often tumbled free, it was just as likely to deliver a fatal blow as a waft of delicate perfume. For the moment, it was locked around the shapely hip of one of the dancers, a woman named Giselle. Sadly, Giselle bore a suitor of her own -- whether she wished for his attentions or no.

Claude Renoir was not so easily shaken from his prize. 

"Do not bother," his friends cajoled, complaining as he ventured from the smoking room, glasses of brandy barely disturbed and abandoned upon the table. "Come back to watch the show. From our seats you can look straight up their skirts."

He would not listen. No, Claude assumed he was in the right -- as he often does in whatever matter the young man thinks was his divine right. At the tender age of twenty-three, with a rich father and a business to whet his beak upon once he exits university, he was nearly right. Men of his cloth were offered the whole world upon a satin pillow. 

Such a shame he chose to butt up against the one sword to slice his future to ribbons.

Rounding up the stairs, Claude spotted Giselle laughing, her pert form reclining upon a fine divan. Her delicate fingers splayed out against a stranger's chest, her perfect face dipping under the stranger's wide brimmed hat to press a whisper in an ear. Another woman sat astride this usurper, dressed in even less than his dear Giselle. 

_How dare he! To take not one but two women for himself? It was unheard of!_

"Sir!" Claude stomped his foot on the rug before this lecher. Both of the girls looked up into his scarlet face, his anger and passion transforming into purpose. "I say, you have no right to abscond with my Giselle!"

"Your Giselle?" a voice rolled from under the bent hat, its brim obscuring a face. But the sound was odd, far more tenor than he would have expected within this house of debauchery. "I see no ring, no brand to her succulent rump," a hand slid off Giselle's shoulder to slap into her buttocks.

Claude roared at the slight while Giselle, dear Giselle giggled. "You dare!"

"I dare do what I wish, Sir...whatever you call yourself. No point in telling me, it will slip from my ear before you go."

The anger turned to rage, Claude's eyes glaring death upon this usurper. Still, the man wouldn't move, refused to take his hands off what was rightfully Claude's. So be it! Claude reached forward, about to grab his beloved Giselle off of this stranger's lap, when fingers latched onto his arm.

Brown as the peasants that burned in the fields, they dug in tight and refused to let go. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man laughed, his voice raising into an alto.

"Do you have any idea who I am?!" Claude howled.

A glint of a smile appeared below the shadows of the hat, "You speak as if I should care."

"I am the eldest son to Monsieur Renoir, heir to the..."

That brown hand released him in order to wave through the air, cutting off his credentials. "That's who your father is. Who are you, boy?"

Boy? This puerile farmer trucked in from the provinces dared to call him such! "You have greatly offended me, Sir. I demand satisfaction!"

The two women astride the stranger gasped, Giselle covering her mouth in shock. Good. May the man quiver, fall to his knees in subjugation begging to be forgiven, and let Claude have what he deserved. He was about to reach out for his love, when Giselle turned to the hat and cried.

"Please, he's a foolish child. You shouldn't..."

A child? Oh Giselle! How her cruel thoughts wounded him straight through the heart.

"You are aware that duels are illegal in Paris," the man said.

"Are you afraid? Are you a coward? Do you have not the balls to face me?"

The smile lengthened and the stranger rose from the divan. "There is nothing a pup like you can do to scare me, and..." a hand yanked off the hat to reveal long black hair cascading down HER back. She was a woman?! Cocking a hip to the side, her brown face smiled, "I don't need a pair of danglers to face you."

Dressed in little more than what the whores working through the theater wore, she paraded about in all white. There was no dress to cover her shame, only a corset with a sash of purest blue tied around her waist. Boots rose to her thighs as if she'd walked the streets dusk to dawn.

"What are you?!" Claude cried, skittering back a step as he feared the woman to be a hag dragged in by the sea. While her features were fine enough in the low light, the sea hags could shift them to torment men by dawn. 

The woman turned to Giselle, circled a hand around her peaches and cream jawline, then sampled a long, slow kiss from those pink lips. Claude hung in shock. He hadn't even had a chance to hold her hand yet and this woman, this degenerate, was kissing her in public!

"I am Isabela, feared pirate of the Caribbean, master duelist in all of France, ransacker of beds, lover of such fine art," her hand scooped along Giselle's décolletage, showing no care for decorum. Golden snake eyes snapped up at him, "And you, young pup, are the next man to dance upon the end of my blade." In full view of the patrons, she unsheathed a sword kept at her hip. The candlelight danced up and down the rapier's edge, Claude transfixed by the glow.

"Or," she paused, "do you relent and allow me to continue with my business as I see fit?"

He was no duelist. His father owned a sword but if he found out Claude was scuffling, was breaking the law, he'd go spare. Perhaps even threaten to disown him. Fighting her would be foolish. If he won, he'd have beaten a girl, which afforded him little honor. And if he lost...no, he wouldn't lose.

"Oh," this Isabela paused in staring longingly at Giselle, "and you have to leave her alone. Forever."

Claude saw red, his hand rising up to strike her in the face, "We shall meet outside the theater."

The woman didn't blanch, she didn't turn and run. No, the idiot smiled wide, took his hand and gave it a powerful shake. "This shall be fun."

His friends agreed to back him up, two of them braying about Claude managing to work himself into such a predicament. Fighting against one woman for another, it was a waste of his time and skin. He didn't care about Giselle. Forget the whore. No, this was all about putting that...cretin in her place. Proving to her that she belonged under a man's thumb, not philandering about in theaters with other women.

"Perhaps she won't even show," his close friend said, the drunkard laugh shattering the night, when the swish of a cloak overpowered the inebriations.

Claude's blood boiled, his hand locking around the grip of his foil. This woman had returned her hat, complete with a long crimson feather in the brim, upon her head. It was tipped back, allowing her to gaze at her challenger, as well as his seconds. Where was hers? Did she come alone?

A cloak as black as night circled her body, Isabela casting it off of her shoulder with a flip of her arm. "Forgive me, I had to...enjoy a rather long goodbye. Giselle is quite skilled in such matters."

"Draw your weapon!" Claude cried, quickly unsheathing his rapier. The hilt was a silver steel, twisted like a brambled mulberry bush. He'd never fought a man to death with it, nor a woman for that matter. But the anger in his stomach boiled, assuring Claude that he could cut pieces off of her blackened hide and feel no remorse for it.

"Such a hurry," she shook her head, then plucked her hat off. With a throw, she flung it to one of his friends, who caught it in surprise. "Hold that for me, darling," she winked at him, and the bastard blushed. "Yes yes, as you were saying," she gripped onto the hilt of her sword and unsheathed it into the waning gas lamplight of evening Paris.

Claude snickered while eyeing up her pathetic blade. The edge was thin as a blade of grass, but it was the grip that had him laughing. "You don't have a hilt upon that thing. There's nothing to shield your hand from my blows."

"Arrogant little shit, aren't you?" she laughed, swiping thrice through the air. "Funny thing is, " Isabela raised her arm up, the elbow cocked as the edge of the blade cut through the air right beside her eye, "so am I."

Screaming, Claude ran at the woman. He didn't need a countdown, only for her blood to litter the cobbles. With everything inside of him, he swung for her hand. Disarm her, make her fall to her knees and weep. Sweep Giselle off her whore feet and into his bed to be used once and discarded. It was a brilliant plan.

His blade's tip cut through the air, about to flay the brown skin from her hand, when suddenly his sword was thrown back. Another swing bounced into his blade, skittering it even further into the night as the woman danced forward on the balls of her feet. Through the rush of his blood he heard his friends shouting for him, cheering him on, but Claude was too slow to retrieve his skittered blade.

Two twin cuts sliced against his cheeks, stinging deeper than any shaving mishap ever would. Gasping, Claude fell back, touching his enflamed flesh to find sticky blood swiped over his fingers. "How dare you?!" he screamed, his eyes widening in shock.

"Well, the trick is to be good. Which is probably why you're having trouble. Oh, you don't mean how can I but how may I." Another swipe of the blade swung from the darkness, striking faster than lightning. He barely had a chance to block it, this one aiming for his wrist. Claude bounced one away, but a second thrust cut into his waistcoat. The chain thudded to the ground, Isabela whacking him away until she could pick it up for herself. She eyed the thing by the moonlight as if it were a prize, before pocketing it on her barely there clothing.

"See, young pup," her attacks were unending, backing him into corners, then chasing him away. All Claude could do was keep her from killing him. Still, cuts were appearing all over his body. Slashes to his arms, his legs, the back of his knees. His friends fell silent, watching in terror as Claude was led about on an invisible lead.

"If you had a lick of sense in your brain, you'd know me as Isabela, Queen of the Siren's Call."

"Sweet mother Mary!" one of his friends shouted before crossing himself.

"Ah, a fan of my work," Isabela winked and nodded at him. "Shame your friends didn't warn you about me. I've fought in at least fifteen different duels since weighing anchor upon your shores. Always with stuff shirt pricks who think they own whatever they can take. And you know what happens to those men?"

"What?" Claude snarled. She was bobbing but slowing, circling around his back. If he swung fast he might be able to knock into her smart mouth with the pommel of his sword. Isabela darted close to his shoulder, which was when Claude struck.

Swinging behind, he expected for his fist to come in contact with her face, but suddenly there was naught but air where she'd been. Something hard bashed into the back of his bleeding legs, sending Claude crumbling to the street. Filthy muck splashed up from his hands splattering into fetid water and piss. He gasped, trying to spit the muck out, when a sharp blade drew against his throat.

"They always lose," she smiled wider at him, about to plunge the blade deep and finish him off.

"You!" another woman's voice roared through the night.

"Oh, for the love of..." Isabela stepped back, her blade fleeing away from Claude's neck. She sheathed it while turning to whoever was shouting at her. It wasn't yet another jealous husband but a woman built like an ox. Hair redder than the seine by sunset, an unsophisticated stomp to her manly gait, this woman approached Isabela and grabbed onto her collar.

"You know duels are illegal here! We've warned you once before."

"Yes, Aveline. I heard you the first time, I simply didn't care," Isabela whimpered as this muscular woman began to bind her hands behind her back. "You should know, he challenged me."

"Right, anyone in Paris is stupid enough to challenge you to a duel," the redhead chuckled mirthlessly, clearly finding his humiliation hilarious.

"I was doing you a favor by cleaning up this trash. I dare say I deserve a medal..." Isabela sighed.

Struggling to rise, Claude shook away the spots in his vision to watch the subject of his ire being clapped in irons as befitted her. "Yes, arrest her. Take her away!"

"What do you think I'm doing?" this Aveline rolled her eyes at him,

"Told you," Isabela whistled, rocking back and forth on her toes even as the iron cuffs clanked on. "Total prat."

Sneering, Claude stomped closer to the woman unable to fight back. His nose flared as he declared, "You're an abomination. Creatures like you should be stoned before the church steps. It isn't natural for a woman to abandon the home's hearth, dress like a man and fight. You're no better than a feral dog."

"Damn it," the redhead groaned, her head tipping back to the stars. Claude turned to her in confusion, worrying he'd have to be the one to take Isabel in as a feminine vapor overtook her, when a massive fist burst into his jaw. He collapsed to the street, his head bouncing against the cobbles as he stared up at the bruised knuckles of the redhead still hanging in the air.

The redhead turned around to Isabela and snarled, "Get out of here." Then she bent over to haul Claude up from his dizzying state. He could barely see after that punch. "Disorderly, and drunk in public. Gonna have a long stay in the Bastille for that, prat."

The iron cuffs clanged to the ground without the redhead having to assist. Isabela dashed to pick up her hat from his friend's useless fingers. Once it was on her head, she gave a jolly wave to the men and walked right back into the theater. Claude groaned, his head throbbing from every hit to his body as those cuffs were now strapped to him.

"Don't you know anything? Never interrupt her when she's watching a show. You idiots," the woman hauled him up and tossed him over her gargantuan shoulder, "you never learn."


	14. Dorian at the Laundromat (Sweet Flirting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had an idea for a modern Dorian where he's setting out on his own and trying to learn about this new world.

"Fasta vass!" Dorian cursed, glaring at the infernal machine that greedily accepted his money but refused to start. He felt eyes rising from across the peeling linoleum, hands ceasing their folding, as they all wondered about the man close to beating a washing machine to death.

His patent leather shoe nudged into the side, barely even a kick, though he wished he could do more damage. That cursed creature didn't so much as give a jiggle, only sat there happy to have consumed half of his pile of quarters. Growing more incensed with each second, he folded his hand into a fist and rammed for the flimsy metal.

Fingers wrapped around his enraged punch, holding him to a dead halt an inch before he made contact. _Who dared to touch him?_ His cheeks flushed with rage, his eyes dilating to unearth a threat, Dorian spun to the tan hand holding him and his jaw dropped. Eyes as sharp as a perfectly cut diamond stared into his. The man's lips lifted in a small smirk as he unleashed his hold upon Dorian.

"I wouldn't if I were you. Unless you want to be thrown out onto the street and have Bertha keep your clothes."

This stranger dropped his arm to his side drawing Dorian's eye to the man's ramshackle clothing. He was dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt looking as if he'd just come from the gym. And judging by the taut and proud muscles displayed on a hungry frame, he visited there regularly.

Trying to shake away his eyes wandering off on their own, Dorian focused on the machine instead. "Is there some sort of slip I can fill out to get back my money? Or, baring that, a bareknuckle unground fight club against various washers?"

A laugh ripened the man's cheeks, his hand slicking back through thick tufts of chestnut hair. "Afraid not. But..." He leaned over towards the controls, those diamond eyes cutting through the ancient runes someone dashed over the knobs. No chance that claptrap was a current speakable language.

"Here," the stranger tipped his head to the middle knob. "You've got to push in first," he did so, then turned the knob towards some designation on the mystical chart. "Then push start and..." 

The machine began to rumble against both their hands, Dorian starting in surprise at how quickly it succumbed to this man's will. He was about to thank him, when the stranger sighed, "Guessing this is your first time in a laundromat."

"Why?"

Those sharp eyes drew down Dorian's body, taking their time before returning to his uncertain face. When the pouty lips of the stranger lifted, some of Dorian's concerns did as well. "Not many dress in here like they're going to a polo match."

"Ah," Dorian scoffed, batting at his hair, "I'll have you know I wouldn't be caught dead at a polo match in this." He tugged on his lapels and struck a slight pose to accentuate the lines of his body. The stranger was quick to take note. "This would get me laughed out of the stable by the first dowager to spot me."

"As you say," he ruffled his hair again, putting it even more out of shape than before. "Wouldn't know much about that myself." Silence fell between them, the stranger fiddling with his fingers.

"Thank you," Dorian got out. It felt strange to tell someone that. To feel honest gratitude in his bones. He'd been running on anger and betrayal for so long he'd thought it a permanent fixture. This unexpected kindness was a balm to soothe away some of the rage's rash. 

"Guessing you threw off the yoke recently," the man said, jabbing a finger to the cardboard box Dorian used to cart his filthy clothes down here. 

_Yoke?_ No, it was far more restrictive than that. At least animals were allowed their freedom from the chains when they slept and ate. At least they could be themselves in the food troughs and barns. And how did this stranger have any clue what he was going through? 

"No idea what you mean," Dorian tried to wrap himself in his insouciant charm. He hated how deep the man's probing comments struck.

"Well, never mind then," the stranger moved to turn away when Dorian spoke up.

"I'm Pavus, Dorian Pavus," he extended his hand and it took a moment for the stranger to grip back. Bristling at the eyes around the laundromat staring up at them, Dorian kept his body far enough back none could mistake this for anything more than a friendly greeting.

Then the stranger went and darted just the tip of his tongue over his lip, guiding the bottom lip in deeper so his teeth could bite down. Fasta vaas, indeed. "Most call me Lavellan."

"That's a curious name."

Lavellan shrugged as if it were normal to him, "What I was given, sort of." 

Dropping his voice low to match the rumble of the stained dryers, Dorian asked, "Anyone out there call you something...special?"

The man's cheeks burned bright as he glanced down at the floor. While those crystal eyes vanished from his view, Dorian watched the man's lips laugh a moment and smile, "Not in...a while." He raised his head and met Dorian's gaze, crystal blue into hazel grey. "A long while."

Sweaty palms dangled at both men's sides, nearly touching against the knuckles. Tongues lapped over chapped lips, daring the other to make the first move. Eyes wouldn't slip from the other, hanging for a charge.

A buzzer sounding of a dying airhorn shattered the air and the foggy mystique. The fact they were surrounded by bored and off-putting people scrubbing off skidmarks crash landed on Dorian's brain. He drifted a step back, trying to shake the thoughts from his head. The stranger, this Lavellan, turned his handsome face to the stacks of dryers.

"Looks like my clothes are done. Nice meeting you, Dorian," with a tip of his head, he walked over to his finished dryer and quickly fished out the laundry into a plastic basket. 

Frozen in place, as if he had to guard his meager clothing spinning around in the washer, Dorian watched this confounding man scoop out the last of his laundry. He'd leave soon. Vanish back into the noisy and uncaring city. "You, um," Dorian took a single step forward, then lost all his nerve. 

What could he do? Ask for the man's number? It didn't matter even if he agreed, Dorian had yet to get himself a new phone. 

Diamond blue-white eyes lifted from the basket full of an array of colors to land in Dorian's. "I bet we'll run into each other again soon. I'm often around, here and there. If you need anything else...?"

Lavellan stepped a bit closer, his basket switching to his hip. It'd take little for Dorian to grab at his hand, ask him to go somewhere later. Meet him elsewhere. A date? What was he thinking going on a date with another man? Right here where everyone could see?

Those crystal eyes sized him up and, with a sigh, Lavellan swung the basket in between them. "I get it, Pavus. Settling in, lay of the land. But if you need help, don't be too proud to ask. We look after our own here." With that final sentence, this hauntingly beautiful man walked towards the door.

Dorian could do nothing more than watch him leave, his fear pinning him in place. But, his eyes grew emboldened, and dared to skirt from Lavellan's plain, grey-shirted back down the jeans suckered so tight to his taut ass he could almost make out any moles. Just before he was about to vanish out that door, possible forever, Lavellan paused.

"And Dorian," he winked at the man left gobsmacked beside the washer, "welcome to the city."


	15. Hammock (Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Born from a fic request where someone wanted a Barris, Cullen, and OC while in a hammock.

"This isn't fair!" the rather whiny voice of a certain blonde man shouted from the garden.

Delrin shrugged, tucking his naked arms behind his nestled head. With a soft breeze wafting over the bluebells, he swayed in the hammock. "You lost the bet," he called, his eyes shut tight even with a pair of sunglasses perched upon his nose. It was the perfect lazy summer day.

Well, lazy for some.

Cullen grumbled, as was his wont, while he started up the push mower. Rows upon rows of tiny blades sliced apart the grass that'd grown so high it was guaranteed to be a workout cutting it back. Yep, had to be a real pain judging by all the grunting.

Perhaps Delrin should feel bad, the grown man hoisted upon his own petard, but it'd been Cullen's idea in the first place. On the other hand, there was an awful lot of ground to cover and a perfect hammock begging for use. His naked leg slipped to the grass, blades rising up past his ankle and tickling the brown skin. Delrin gave a quick kick, sending the hammock undulating through the air.

With a contented sigh, he hoisted his leg into the safety of the netting and stretched back to let the caressing rays of the summer's sun warm him. While they were playing murder on poor Cullen, the pale man already sweating bullets once they'd stepped outside, Delrin was able to enjoy a slight glistening against his naked chest. A few drops beaded up in his tuft of coarse chest hair like dew on a rose petal.

It was the perfect summer day.

"What are my boys up to?" 

Delrin smiled. Perfect, save one last addition. Tugging his sunglasses further down his nose, he peered over the rim to spot Selena standing as graceful as ever. A sundress hugged her chest, breasts peeking out over the top, before the skirt flared out at her beguiling hips. He couldn't remember if he'd seen her in it before, but his mind was conjuring up how much fun it'd be to lift that skirt up over her thighs.

"Working," Cullen grunted, more hacking and slashing sounds erupting from the mower.

"Not all of us," Delrin snickered, returning his glasses to their proper perch. He cast a long gaze at the man suffering so due to his own hubris. But even through that amber glare there was a familiar hunger as well. He must have noticed the new dress too.

"Poor baby," Selena laughed, dancing through the grass barefoot. She stepped towards Cullen who returened to jamming the mower through the briars of their backyard. When he wouldn't look up, she twirled to Delrin happily stretched out for the shifting shadows of the treetops and sun beams.

"You look like a cat that found its perfect spot," Selena mused. Her cool hand parted over the middle of his chest, fingers ruffling his hair before they began to trail downwards. Even with his eyes closed, she had Delrin's full attention.

"It is..." he gasped when she paused just at the waistband of his shorts, "a lovely day."

"Certainly looks comfortable," the woman playfully teasing with the drawstring kept on taunting him. He reached out with a strong hand to cup her thigh hiding under the thin cotton dress. Just as Delrin began to rub into her muscle, it shifted out from under him.

"I think I'll join you," Selena declared, scrabbling to slide on top of him in the hammock.

"Wait!" he tried to sit up, but the woman was fast, her tiny body easily subduing his back into the netting. "I don't know if this will hold us both."

"Psh," she waved his concerns away as she lay her entire body stretched over his. Her breasts and the bit of lace hiding away her cleavage pooled against his chest, Selena trying to swim up him. Delrin chuckled at her tenacity and caught her lips in a kiss. Like lemonade by the porch as fireflies flit through the air -- her touch soothed away any aches trapped in his soul. It was perfect, it was sweet, and she clearly wanted more.

Her knee dug into the netting, Selena raising her body higher as she dove deeper into Delrin's hungry mouth. Tongues lazily swirling against each other, her hands clamped down onto his shoulders and squeezed into the muscle. Heat stronger than any asphalt at the height of summer burned down his spine, Delrin raising his hands to cup her breasts.

A crack broke through the air. Both of the lovers turned their heads to watch the rope holding the hammock snap in half. They gasped just as gravity took control, hurling their bodies to the grass-covered ground. Pain jarred up Delrin's spine, then more from his chest where he cushioned Selena's fall. "Damn it," he cursed, trying to get a breath into his lungs.

"Guess we can't both fit in there," she shrugged, her lips twisted into a wry smile. 

Delrin sneered, about to point out how he knew that, when a very undignified snort erupted from near them. Both turned to find Cullen, with one arm draped over the mower's handle, doubled over in laughter. His cheeks turned ruddy, tears streaming down his face as he kept slapping a hand into his knee and pointing at them.

"Are you finished?" Delrin asked, rolling to his feet and offering a hand to Selena.

It took a few more belly laughs, Cullen having to wipe tears from his eyes before he ceased his braying. "Yes," he blew air out of his mouth, then smiled wider, "I guess this means you can help now."


	16. Relief (Sweet & Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic request for Cullen with an OC and ice cream.

She looked miserable, like a delicate mountain flower wilting under the oppressive heat of the sun. Poor Lyliane sat perched upon a hillside, her back near a tree that was casting barely any shadow over her enflamed skin. Digging a hand into the nape of his neck, Cullen began to climb to her. The summer was proving relentless, he himself having to forgo the armor while they traveled a large cavalcade through the northern provinces of Orlais.

It felt strange at time to only be in a solitary linen tunic -- and Maker knew Sera couldn't cease with the jabs at what chest hair of his prodded through the laces. But he couldn't deny the breeze that'd waft through the tissue thin shirt. A shame he couldn't impart the same to Lyliane who remained in her Inquisition robes. 

As he rose higher with her hair aflame like a sunflower in the field, her striking green eyes focused from the ether upon him. "I hate this weather," she growled, Cullen having to smother a snicker at her words. It seemed rather obvious to any and all, most of the underlings keeping far afield from an angry Inquisitor.

Lyliane tipped her head back to the unending sun and spat out a series of Dalish curses, her fist folded tight while waving at it. Chuckling, Cullen admitted, "I'm afraid I don't know what any of those mean."

Her swearing froze and sheepish eyes turned to him, "It's probably not wise of me to teach you _those_ words."

"Contrary to my appearance, I'm not as innocent as I look."

"Oh," a bright blush burned over Lyliane's cheeks, her soft hand cupping to hide away her cheek, but her eyes honed to a razor's edge as she stared at him. "Um," she shifted in the tall grass, her tongue falling silent as the words must have escaped her. 

That tendency of hers was relaxing at times, the two of them finding comfort in sharing the same space while free to focus on their own tasks. Though, a few of the soldiers shared quite a laugh when they caught the Inquisition perched on his lap -- both heads down in work.

Not wanting her to suffer, Cullen spoke first, "I know you hate this heat, so I thought I might bring you something to help against it."

"Oh?" her face perked up, Lyliane tipping her head higher to him.

From behind Cullen's back he presented a bowl with a solitary spoon sticking out of a mass of creamy pink mounds. Lyliane's eyes puckered, her mouth falling flat. "What is it?" she jabbed a finger towards the bowl, but didn't draw too close.

"Ice cream. A concoction from Orlais. I haven't had it often, but it's..." he nudged the spoon a bit, letting it clatter against the clay bowl in thought, "it's tasty. I think you'll like it."

"Looks like cherry oatmeal," she muttered, remaining in place.

"Strawberry, actually. The only flavor they had, um," Cullen placed the bowl in her hands, but Lyliane still seemed dubious of the entire ordeal.

"It's cold to touch," she remarked, her palms soothing up the sides of the bowl.

Unceremoniously tumbling to his backside, Cullen dug the spoon around in the melting treat, scooping up in as much ice cream as he could. With one hand cupped under it, he guided the spoon towards her mouth. Still, those uncertain eyes watched him, a copper eyebrow cocked.

"Trust me," he whispered and Lyliane opened her mouth. Slipping just the tip of the spoon in, he waited as she drew her tongue around it, lapping up her first taste of ice cream. Those summer green eyes flared open wide, her hand lashing out to grab his and pull more of the ice cream into her mouth.

Once the spoon was licked clean, she gasped, "That's delightful. Creamy, but cold, and...fruity. Refreshing. What did you say it was?"

Lyliane snatched the spoon from his fingers and began to shovel more into her mouth. The heat was completely forgotten, a smile twinkling in her eyes which made him grin as well. "Ice cream," Cullen repeated. "Oh, but you should go slower or..."

"Ah!" she cried, the spoon clattering into the bowl. Her fingers pinched into the bridge of her nose, Lyliane hissing in pain. "What is this...pain? Here! And! And everywhere in my skull!"

"A brain freeze. I can help," he insisted while drawing closer to her. Lyliane's pained eyelids opened, her hand falling from pinching her nose just as Cullen cupped his lips around hers. His hand rustled through her hair, cuddling the back of her head tighter as he poured forth all the heat from his mouth into hers.

Soft as rose petals, her bottom lip nipped against the scruff of his soul patch as Lyliane flirted her tongue with his. With one last peck upon her sweet lips, Cullen's amber eyes opened. "Better?"

A smile rose slowly, Lyliane nodding her head, "Much. But what caused the pain?"

"If you eat the ice cream too fast, it'll do that. Like you got kicked in the head by an apostate," he pointed to his own wrinkled forehead. 

Lyliane drew her fingers over the worry lines, shifting them upwards while her lips slightly parted, "Or an ice spell backfiring off your fingers."

"That I know less about," Cullen confessed, his eyes drifting to the partially soupy bowl of ice cream.

Like in a dream, Lyliane's eyes trailed his and she gulped, "Oh, you should have some as well."

"No," he shook his head, "it's for you. A special batch, they used strawberries to try and match your hair..." Cullen worried the tips of his fingers at the roots of her fiery mane and parted through the locks, "But it can't compare."

Smiling serenely, she waited until he reached the tips of her hair, before picking up the spoon. "I insist. It is tasty, but I'm not sure I can eat all before it turns into a puddle."

"All right," he admitted, his mouth opening.

She swirled the spoon over the top of the ice cream, getting a good glob and holding it out for Cullen. He less than gracefully leaned for it, his tongue catching some, but a good plop landed on the top of his chest and began to smear downwards.

"Oh dear," Lyliane gasped adorably, both of them watching the strawberry streak drip against his tanned chest. He was about to insist it wasn't a problem, he'd wash up later, when she dove forward. Tugging down the tunic's laces, her hot tongue lapped up the strawberry cream. 

Playfully, she began to suck against the sticky skin, causing Cullen's toes to curl in his boots. "Sweet Maker," he groaned, Lyliane bold enough to place a hand upon his inner thigh for balance. She started to drift lower, her nose brushing against his chest hair, as she dove for the remaining ice cream melting upon his skin.

"Woo!" a soldier hooted from his post along the border of the campsite. Cullen whipped his head over, trying to muster the best glare he had in his arsenal, when Lyliane's cool hand cupped his cheek.

"Commander," she whispered, "I do believe we have a tent we can take advantage of."

Smiling, he helped her rise to her feet. "Yes, we do." Cullen took her small hand in his, but she turned back to hoist up the bowl that was nearly soup. He stared down at it, wondering what was the point of keeping it, when mischievous green eyes caught in his and a shiver of excitement ran up his spine.

Hand in hand, the two of them and the bowl slipped down the hill for his very private tent. Laying her head upon his shoulder, Lyliane whispered in his ear, "I quite love ice cream."


	17. BBQ (Funny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic request for Alistair to get his BBQ on.

Armed with fork and tongs, Alistair stood proud before the potbelly smoker spewing delectable meaty and drool-inducing scents into the air. Strapped across his chest was an apron bearing the words "Tender Succulent & Natural Aged, And the BBQ's Not Bad Either!" He'd already managed to get a sauce stain over the word aged, not that anyone much cared.

"Everybody," he shouted to the meandering throng, a smile widening on his face, "I want to welcome you all to my first ever Bee Bee Queue."

Morrigan snorted into the lip of her beer, her yellow eyes ripping through the man, "If everyone does not wind up poisoned before the night is over I shall be surprised." She then tipped her beer back, the imported alcohol swilling down her throat.

Scoffing, Alistair crossed his arms, "As if. Ain't like we're letting you near the food to do your evil witchy things to it."

With measured steps, Sten crossed to the smoke belching rig and muttered, "Is this your pit? It's puny. The Qunari will dig out a beach and bury ten hogs in the sand for nearly a day, the heat of the sun melting the meat to proper tenderness. This...this cannot hold little more than a few piglets."

Sighing and rolling his eyes, Alistair wrapped a hand around the Qunari inspecting the meat. Shoving Sten away before he tried to sneak a piece of pork, he said, "Best I could do, sorry. The HOA was against me tearing up my yard, and my neighbors, dumping twenty tons of sand in the hole, then murdering a pig in the driveway."

"Pity," Sten snarled, stomping off to stand beside Morrigan. Without a word, the witch handed the Qunari another beer. He popped off the not-screw cap with his thumb.

"Ah, Alistair," Zev slid in where the Qunari once stood, his hands wrapped around the cheapest beer one could buy. "What shall we be enjoying on this fine summer evening? Hamburgers? Hot dogs?"

"Hot..." Alistair stuttered, his head whipping in the gnat-infested breeze. "Blighted hell, no. Hamburgers and hot dogs are grilling. Grill-ing. This is real BBQ,right BBQ, just without the whole sand, shovels, and a dozen shirtless qunari strangling a pig part." Sten only snorted at the barbarians unable to offer up a proper feast.

"A shame," Zev turned away from the grumbling Qunari so his eyes locked in on Alistair's, "I was looking forward to tasting your sausage."

"There is no sausage! Only pulled pork, more tender than butter, and a whole rack of ribs," he kept yanking open the smoker's door to rub yet another streak of sauce over them, which he'd been tending to for over a day.

"No, I..." Zevran tried to interrupt him, but Leliana gripped onto his shoulder.

"There's no point, Zev. He won't understand."

"É vita," the elf sighed, returning to guarding the card table laden in paper plates and cutlery.

"Don't think I can't see you nosing about in there, Leliana," Alistair warned. "No sneaky tastes until it's ready."

The ex-sister only smiled serenely at the man armed with a bbq fork. "You're imagining things, Alistair."

"If you were ten feet tall and belching Old Mac Donald while clowns circled around your feet, sure. You trying to steal a bit of pork out from under me, not so much," he brandished the fork near her nose, not about to back down for anything. Admitting defeat, Leliana held her empty hands up and stepped back.

"Alistair!" Wynne chastised from the sidelines, throwing down a tupperware dish and then bustling to him. "Are there no vegetables here? No salads or greens of any kind?"

"Uh," he scratched at the back of his head with the tongs, then paused, "I think Oghren brought some potato crisps. That's a vegetable." At the attention, the dwarf held up his thumb then belched. He'd taken the BYOB to heart and brought his own cask, which also served as a chair.

Wynne shuddered at the lack of healthy options, "You're going to put yourself in the ground eating this way, young man."

"Better be careful not to do it around Sten, or I'll be the _guest of honor_ at his feast. Right? Right," as Wynne wouldn't back down Alistair began to melt, "Okay, maybe there's an apple or something in the fridge?" He turned to his love, who stood with arms wrapped around a fire extinguisher. All she did was cock an eyebrow at him and shift her stance.

"Look, this is a BBQ, a party. We're here to eat tasty food that might shorten your life a bit. You don't go to these to eat rabbit food. It's about celebrating, enjoying life."

"Yeah!" Oghren shouted.

"And I'm suddenly rethinking all my life choices at this point," Alistair added, shivering at the dwarf agreeing with him. He heard the sound of metal hinges whining and spun to watch as the roof of his smoker closed. "What were you doing?"

"Nothing," Leliana slunk back to stand beside the Warden. "Incidentally," she raised up her fists, revealing metal claws stuck to both her knuckles, "your pork is now shredded."

"You?" Alistair spun back, inspecting the BBQ with his body acting as a shield so the others couldn't see. "How did you do that so quickly?"

Leliana shrugged as if it was nothing important. With a careful twirl of her fingers, she excised up her abandoned glass of wine and turned to the Warden. "A fire extinguisher?" 

"With him, I like to be prepared," she patted the metal can.

"Okay, okay, okay," Alistair added a last drop of the special sauce he'd been slaving over for two weeks and finally turned to the gathered masses. "Ladies, gentlemen, whatever Morrigan is," he smiled at the scowling witch, "I'm pleased to pass out..." He turned to heft up a mass of shredded pork in his tongs, "the very first BBQ of the season!"

Polite clapping rang out from the hungry crew, hands grabbing up plates. The pork smelled delicious, a tangy bite hanging upon the meaty flavors melded with hickory and pecan. Ribs so huge they looked like he swiped them from the Jurassic period filled out the waning plates, everyone grinning madly and aching for a bite.

Just as Alistair topped off the last plate, he turned to gaze out at the friends (and co-workers) who joined him for this summer kick-off. Which was when an ember kicked off of the coals, landed on his novelty oven mitt shaped like a lobster, and erupted into flames. Alistair's eyes widened in shock, a scream beginning in his throat, when white foam splattered through the air to smother down the fire. 

Another two shots sprayed out, making certain the fire was out, when his love placed the fire extinguisher on her hip and smiled. Wrapping a hand around her waist, Alistair smiled, "What would I do without you?"

"Burn the house down," was her logical response before kissing the giddy fool.

"All right everybody," Alistair slapped his hands together, "let's eat!"


	18. Fireflies (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke chases after Fenris and the two of them catch fireflies together

Hawke stumbled through the doors to the Hanged Man prepared to drink himself under the table. He caught the bartender's eye, Corff already tugging out the man's favorite tankard while Hawke quickly scaled the stairs up to Varric's private suite. So private he never closed the door, not even when sleeping.

While he expected to find Isabela at the table, her boots up as she tore through Varric's latest pages, it was the other presence that made Hawke pause. Grumbling into his chest, Fenris stood near the dwarf's favorite chair while sighing, "You had plans tonight."

"Yep," Varric placed down his own mug, which was going to see many refills through the night, "we were gonna...hey, Hawke!" His boots hit the ground, Varric waving his arms in greeting, "You're just in time. Rivaini was marking up the newest chapter."

"I don't know how they let you get away with half of this," Isabela muttered, her fingernail picking at a section in Varric's latest _Hard in Hightown_ that she had underlined...a lot.

"I should go," Fenris said in his usual stoic, dragon-about-to-breath-fire-in-your-face voice. The elf was always drifting in and out of their sight. Appearing when he wanted something, then disappearing for a few days when not. Lot like a cat, come to think of it.

But something in how his eyes drifted to the edge, how his head hung lower to match a stoop in his shoulders, caused Hawke to speak up, "Why not stay? We're just reading sections of Varric's latest before it hits the presses."

Giant green eyes blinked slowly, Fenris' lips parting as if he was about to agree, when the scowl took control. Glaring at nothing, he stomped past Hawke and down the stairs. Not even a goodbye, which was typical. Still...

"Is something up with Fenris?" Hawke asked Varric but Isabela answered.

"You want to know as much as I do what he keeps hidden under all that armor."

Hawke sighed and turned his attention upon the dwarf Fenris had been pressing upon. "Seemed like something was bothering him."

"Who? The elf?" Varric scoffed, "The only thing that bothers him are rainbows, kittens, and smiles."

"Still..."

"If he's in any trouble, he can just stab it with those pointy spikes all over his body."

Bouncing his knee in thought, Hawke twisted to follow the trail Fenris left back out into the darkened night of Kirkwall. It was probably nothing, Hawke overreacting again, and it'd end in the man either throwing him out of his mansion or not answering the door at all. 

"Hold my spot, Isabela," Hawke called, turning to dash back down the stair.

"Where are you going?" Varric tried to shout to him, but Hawke was already out the door and into the piss-scented night. Ah Kirkwall. He'd often navigate by that smell, the western walls proving a favorite to be urinated on. Hawke didn't make it far from the Hanged Man when he bumped into a nest of feathers upon a shoulder.

"Anders? Any chance you spotted Fenris?"

The mage sneered, as he always did when the elf was named. "Yes, growled at me like a rabid dog and stomped off towards Hightown. Why? What'd he do now? Eviscerate someone for laughs?"

"Not..." Hawke rubbed his ear, the feeling in his gut growing more fuzzy with each second. It was probably nothing. He was wasting his time even thinking about worrying.

"You coming in for the reading?" Anders lifted his eyebrows higher, reminding Hawke that there was light and drink inside, and slightly less piss on the walls.

"Maybe later," he said, once again beating feet after the taciturn elf. "After I check on Fenris."

"For the love of Andraste, Hawke. He's a grown murderer. He can take care of himself!"

It wasn't that difficult to track Fenris' progress, a few bodies left scattered in his wake, a few others willing to point towards the white-haired elf that passed them. In the end, Hawke trailed him to the chantry. He didn't enter through the massive door, but vanished against a shadowed wall. Hawke feared he lost him to the darkness, Fenris once again clinging to his preferred solitude, when he looked up.

A skinny silhouette with pointy shoulders and elbows sat perched upon the edge of the chantry roof. His thin legs dangled against the wall, hands clinging to the edge as if he kept gazing down at the ground below and wondering about the fall. Hawke was quick to find a ladder abandoned by some of the window cleaners, his heavy body scaling to the roof.

_Don't look down. Don't think how far the ground is now._ Gah, he hated heights so much he refused to even jump on principle.

Keeping his eyes on the roof and not that stone fall that'd splatter his brains, Hawke eased towards Fenris. Both of his hands lay in his lap, Fenris kicking the heel of his boot against some chantry relief that'd probably send his soul to the void if he broke it. Okay, don't startle him. That could lead to a messy problem.

Hawke coughed, feeling the green glare lance across his soul. "Hi," was all he could come up with. Chased the man clear across Kirkwall, climbed onto a roof, and that was it. Just "hi." Brilliant.

The susurrus of wind cut between them, barely glancing back Hawke's sweaty hair. He tried to wipe some away, transferring the damp mess to his hands instead. Slowly, Fenris turned back to gaze across the empty courtyard. "I thought you had plans."

Hawke shrugged a meaty shoulder, "Plans change. Seemed you might like some company. Unless, you want me to go, then I could..."

"No," Fenris interrupted so quickly, Hawke was nearly bowled over by the burst of emotion. Then the stoicism returned, Fenris twisting his hands back and forth to wring his private thoughts out, "You are fine."

"What, uh...?" Hawke tried to take a step closer, but froze. His eyes zoomed right in on the ground, chilling his guts to icicles. Which was what the chantry grounds would be littered in if he slipped. "What are you doing up here? Nightly stroll? Communing with the pigeons?"

Fenris snorted, his fingers digging into the edifice. He looked like a man about to leap into a pond, which set Hawke's teeth on edge. "No."

"Is that all you've got in you?" Hawke folded his arms, his phobia placed on the shelf while he glared at the reason he was up here in the first place. "A whole bunch of no's?"

A crack formed around Fenris' armor. Not the pointy, angsty stuff that Varric loved to joke about. No, the other armor. The one that'd often consume him for weeks at end, snarl away any attempts at help, or keep him aloof of anyone when he felt like it. Without that armor, it was only Fenris underneath. Pain leeched through the man's eyes causing Hawke to stumble a bit closer. The human fell onto his butt, his eyes trying to keep aligned with the horizon as he scooted nearer to the elf crumbling towards his lap.

"Fenris?" Hawke whispered, a hand reaching through the still air until it found purchase upon his shoulder. 

Spinning away, Fenris stared out at the summer night wafting through the silent stones. So much for hoping Hawke could get this over with and have time to go a couple rounds with Isabela. Biting his tongue, Hawke managed to slide closer to the edge. He kept his legs tucked under him, nowhere close to the edge, but he was near enough to Fenris he could see the man's jaw was flexing.

It kept twitching back and forth as if he was trying to lock every single secret, every thought and fear, behind his teeth. His fingers flexed back and forth, Fenris seeming to be drawn to the white lines running along his flesh when both looked up to a tiny green light appearing in the sky. Three more answered its call, the lights dancing through the stars.

"What are those?" Fenris grumbled in his chest.

"Fireflies," Hawke smiled, reaching a finger out as if one might land upon it. "Do they not have them in Tevinter?"

"No," he shook his head.

"I used to catch them all the time when I was a kid. Bethany and Carver would beg me to get one for them," Hawke smiled, trying to cling to the few happy memories he had left. "'Course the second I did, they'd let it go, and I'd have to catch another. Would take the whole night."

_His father watching from the back stoop, Carver and Bethany chasing after the taller, faster Hawke. Their mother sitting on the chair with her glass, calling for the children to hurry up and get ready for bed. Home._ He hadn't thought about it in so long, the ache surprised him.

"Ah!" Fenris lashed out fast, his hands cupping into the air. Gently, he brought both down until he could peer inside. "I have one," he announced to Hawke. 

From between the brown fingers, a gentle green glow pulsed, both Fenris and Hawke trying to stare closer at it. The bug scuttled back and forth within its little jail, the light growing stronger as if it was calling to its friends. Hawke was about to comment, when a brighter white-blue light seared over the view.

His tattoos lit up, the lyrium practically singing in the night air as Fenris stared down at the trapped firefly. Soon, his tattoos pulsed in time with the bug, green and white-blue flaring so that Hawke could almost see through the elf's fingers. 

"Fenris?" Hawke whispered, concerned for...he wasn't certain what. He'd only seen the lyrium glow when Fenris was about to kill.

The elf's green eyes, usually sharp as his blade, softened by the firefly's glow. "It is the anniversary of when I escaped from Danarius."

"It is?" Hawke stuttered, "Why didn't you say anything? We could have...I dunno, baked you cake? Is that a thing you celebrate with cake?"

His watchful eye rolled to Hawke and for a brief moment a smile twirled with his lips. But it fell quickly, Fenris returning to his vigil over the firefly. "I am uncertain. It does not seem like a moment worth celebrating. Remembering."

"But...that's the day you became free."

"Is it?" tears sung in his voice, the sound catching Hawke off guard. Perhaps it was his tattoos doing, but he'd never heard Fenris so close to sorrow. "What freedom, what life do I have? I watch my back, day in and day out, waiting for when Danarius comes to throw me back into chains or put a knife there. And some days," his voice fell lower, softer, "some days I almost welcome it."

"Fenris..."

"Always running, never free..."

"You're not running. Not anymore. You're here, in Kirkwall. With a house and everything," Hawke insisted. Okay, a rundown, thinking-about falling apart house, but it had walls and a ceiling.

"What if," he pulsed the lyrium in his body, causing his hand to phase out of existence. "What if I can't see the bars, but they haven't left me? What if I never lose them?"

His body fell dark, the lyrium silenced as he stared at the trapped firefly, only a flicker of green emanating through the gaps of his fingers. "Run, forever running, and for what purpose? What lies at the end of this other than...darkness?"

Fenris was strong, not just in body (though, Maker had he put enough bad guys on the pyre) but in spirit. It'd take a tremendous strength for him to turn and strike his own Master. To fight against him day after day for so many years. 

But the strong are not unbreakable, a fact often forgotten when the storybook closed. Hawke reached a hand over to cup the top of Fenris', both of them now holding the firefly. His eyes, pulsing the same green as the bug, stared into Hawke's wondering why he did that. Perhaps even questioning why he was there in the first place.

"There are days when I don't know why I bother getting up," Hawke confessed. "I mean, look at what I've managed. Got my brother killed, Aveline's husband, my mother...Bethany's in..." He sucked in a breath, trying to swallow down the tears in his eyes. "Why would anyone want a screw-up like that around? Why would anyone want me in their lives?"

Fenris' lips parted, a word hanging upon them, but he didn't voice it. All he could do was stare with those unending green eyes deep into Hawke's. The source may vary, but the pain was familiar. 

Swallowing down the sobs, Hawke said, "You're not alone, Fenris." His white hair dipped down, taking in Hawke's words. "You haven't been for years."

The cool, midnight breeze swept back both of their hair, causing most of the fireflies to fall away from them. All save their friend who couldn't leave. Fenris stared at his fingers as he whispered, "Thank you, Hawke. For...following me."

He snickered at the elf's phrasing. "You're welcome."

Once again, Fenris' body burned white against the midnight sky. Slowly, he lifted his hand, gifting the firefly what he too yearned for. At first, it didn't leave. An eerie green glow tried to compete with Fenris' light, the two of them pulsing at the other. But when none of its friends came to visit, the firefly took wing, only the trail of its green glow left behind for the two men watching.

"Freedom," Fenris whispered. "I forgot how good it can feel to stretch beyond the cage."

Sliding across the tiles, Hawke wrapped an arm around Fenris' shoulders. At first, the stoic elf remained rigid, his head lifted to gaze out at the other fireflies returning to their homes. But after a time, he began to fold, his shaggy white hair nestling against Hawke's shoulder. 

Strength doesn't mean one never requires help. Asking for help doesn't make one weak. Even the strongest sword can break, even the mightiest shield can crack. But, if you know the right people, anything can be mended.

"Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"Can we get off the damn roof now? Please?!"


	19. Swimming (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another request for Alistair and an OC diving off a dock.

Warm skin flexed under his hands, the beautiful woman dressed in this teeny-tiny swimwear that sent Alistair's jaw plummeting to the floor. When Renata strolled out of her tent to show it off, Alistair marched to her, scooped one arm around her back, another under her knees, and hoisted her into his arms. Without a second thought, he began to march towards the pristine lake rocking fishing boats and the creaking dock against the picturesque mountains.

Renata circled her arms around the back of his neck, her head straining to gaze across the pretty lake that seemed to stretch beyond the horizon. A giggle made the tiny bow at the top of her barely-top bounce along with her untethered bits. "Where are we going?" she laughed.

"It's a surprise," was all he'd answer, legs raising higher when his bare feet struck the wooden dock. It rolled along with the crashing waves, Alistair calmly strolling out onto it as Renata began to nuzzle her face against his neck. Hot lips left a red stain down his throat, the woman finding his Adam's apple particularly tasty. 

She was using all her tricky wiles to get him to turn around, to rush back to their tent so he could rip those two small bands off her. No such luck. Alistair was firm in his convictions. Firm in other places too.

Reaching the edge of the dock, Alistair paused gazing out across the sunbeams bouncing off of whitecaps. In the distance, a gull crested its wings inward and dove deep into the water below. Renata turned her head to stare at the same sight, a sigh rolling in her throat, when her body stiffened.

"Alistair...what are you doing?"

The mischievous smile yanked up his lips, causing the woman in his arms to start to wiggle.

"Oh no! Don't you dare!"

"Swimsuits are meant to get wet," he snickered. Renata tried to dig in tighter so he both would and wouldn't let her down. Her legs kicked through thin air, but she didn't stand a chance of escape.

"Alistair, I swear to Andraste if you..."

Before she could finish her sentence, Alistair took a step forward and -- with all his strength -- hurled her into the pristine lake. A shriek erupted from her lips, her pert bottom shattering the waves as Renata plummeted under the cool waves. Chuckling, he waited for her to surface, that tiny band no doubt washed even tighter to her body.

A hand broke first, then her waterlogged head. Renata tipped her mouth up to scream, "You idiot! I can't..." a wave washed over her, causing her to sputter, "I can't swim!"

_Oh shit! Oh, blighted Maker!_ She couldn't? She could do damn near everything else!

The flailing turned to bubbles, Renata slipping from view. Without a second thought, Alistair leapt into the water. Cold snapped against his ass, the man in such a panic he forgot to do anything but jump straight in. Twisting in place, he dove down through the murky water trying to snag onto a hand or foot. 

Swimming deeper and deeper, he kept diving until he struck the muddy bottom. Terrified, Alistair scrabbled over the ground, praying he'd stumble across her, but there was nothing. No sign of a woman drowning. Not even any disturbed sand. Just darkness and mud.

Pain seized up his lungs, sending Alistair panicking for the surface. When he broke, sucking in air, his heart leapt into his throat. There was no sign of her trying to break beside him, no bubbles to lead him to her. Where was she?!

Filling his lungs, Alistair was about to dive, when he heard a great belly laugh from the dock.

With a hand placed to her sopping wet hip, the bone jutted out above the tiny smalls, Renata laughed uproariously at him. "You idiot. I can too swim."

"Why...?!" Alistair sputtered, his eyes ready to bulge out while his heart slipped back down in place. She was okay. She was laughing at him, but okay. "Why did you let me think you drowned?!"

She tipped her head, the sunlight bouncing off of every water-droplet clinging to her skin. "That's what you get for throwing me into the lake." 

Taking a deep breath, his conscience clearing, Alistair was about to admit that was a pretty good joke, when Renata began to run forward. She leapt into the sky, her legs tucked to her chest, as she shouted, "Trebuchet!"

A shadow blotted out the sun, Alistair realizing he needed to move, just as she shattered the lake's surface. Waves of silty water washed over Alistair, nearly drowning him. He wiped at his eyes and spat, trying to shake away the mess when Renata rose from the depths. The smile on her face was damn near contagious as she swept her arms around the back of his neck. Alistair was happy to grip onto her naked waist under the water.

While the two of them waded with their legs, Renata leaned closer, "And this is for jumping into save me." Her white-hot lips crashed onto his, softening to the perfect kiss as Alistair's hands swept up and down her back. Together, they spun in the water, the kiss never wanting to end. 

But, just like summer turning into winter, Renata had to pull away. Her eyes sparkled in his as she whispered, "Wanna see who can make the biggest splash?"

"Oh, you are going down," Alistair chuckled.

Quirking an eyebrow, the talented swimmer paused in stroking towards the dock. "Only if you win," she said with a laugh.


	20. Little Starfish (Sweet Dad)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Lana take their baby Gavin to his first visit to the ocean. Adorableness ensues.

Cullen placed the last rock into the circle, a spray of sea water bouncing into his face before the waves receded away from his tiny pool. He'd taken his time, collecting enough boulders and stones to create a safe refuge from the wilds of the ocean. The pool was only a foot or so deep nestled right against the shore, but he had to be certain it was safe.

A coo of curiosity drew a smile to him and, after wiping the sea spray from his face, he looked up to find cautious amber eyes peering. Chubby fingers clung to his mother's legs, those black curls mopped to his head as he kept a close watch on what Cullen was up to.

"Gavin," Cullen called, a smile rising higher at his boy, "come here."

Those tiny hands, which had once been barely bigger than Cullen's thumb, dug tighter to Lana's shins. She'd dressed in a pair of tiny smalls, only a slip of a skirt providing any modesty, as the sea air kept trying to tug it off the same way Cullen wanted when she first put it on. Her hand rubbed against her son's hair, ruffling it back and forth as she said, "Go on, Sweetie. Go see Daddy."

Gavin risked a chubby foot forward, his eighteen-month-old toes dipping for their first taste of the sea. He tried to hold his foot above the water, uncertain what to make of this, when it splashed hard sending droplets back against his eyes. Blinking furiously, the cautious smile dipped to a far too familiar sneer, Gavin rushing back to hide behind his mother.

"Oh, don't be a sour puss. The water's lovely today," Lana wrestled with their son, trying to get him front and center. She dug her hands under his armpits and hefted him into the air. Those baby rolls wrapped around his thighs and calves wafted back and forth a few inches above the sand. Gavin was fine with his mother lifting him up, until she began to walk into the water.

"No!" he wiggled, trying to fight her. "No, no, no!" he kept crying.

"Sweetie, sweetheart. Gavin!" Lana ordered, strain showing on her face. Cullen began to take a step forward, when Lana shook her head. She redoubled her grip on the slippery toddler. "It's okay. The water is nice. See Daddy."

Cullen bent down and patted a hand into the water as if it were a comfy bed to climb into. "Look, Gavin," he gave it a few more slaps, those eyes peering uncertainly at him. "It's really fun." To try and prove his point, Cullen began to slide down into the salty water until he nestled his back against the rock wall. 

The water barely made it up to the middle of his naked chest, but Gavin perked up considerably at his father being in the same eye range. "Want down!" he ordered. "Mummy, now!"

"What do we say?" Lana repeated on instinct.

"Pwease!" Gavin shouted loud enough it scattered a few gulls. The movement caught his attention, his brown face twisting in the sun to follow the flock of white. With her son distracted, Lana bent down and plopped him into the water. 

Amber eyes opened wide, Gavin frozen as he stared in horror at a line of water circling his chunky ankles. He drew a finger to his lips, plucking on the bottom one until it stuck out more than usual while watching the bubbles and waves rippling from his addition.

Curious, he began to lift his foot higher out of the water. Being not even two, Gavin's body wobbled, but Lana held him in place so he didn't fall. Barely glancing at his mother's interceding, Gavin slapped his foot down fast. A spray of water broke from the pool and their baby boy laughed so heartily it drew a smile to both parents.

Giggling, Gavin bashed his foot thrice more into the waves, each one growing with more strength until the spray struck both Lana and Cullen. "Daddy!" he cried, laughing until his cheeks turned red, "Daddy look!"

"I know, I see," Cullen held his hands up, trying to protect his eyes from his son's splashing.

"Mummy, let go," their little daredevil ordered. Lana did as told, allowing Gavin to march through the tiny pool with his head held high. His smile wouldn't stop, stretched ear to ear, and the smattering of baby teeth blinding white in the sun. Stomping like a bronto, Gavin splashed back and forth through the waves, narrating his adventure partially in gibberish.

"Best be careful," Cullen warned, watching his boy begin to waver with each exuberant step. "You don't want to..."

Gavin's foot fully missed the mark in his last stomp sending the boy's face careening into the water. A panic seized up Cullen's heart, fear screaming that his son was drowning. But before the father could even reach a hand out, Gavin turned to the side and screamed. Giant tears rolled down his cheeks, the boy wailing at his face getting wet.

"Oh," Cullen crawled forward and scooped his baby into his arms. "Come on, come here," he cooed, letting Gavin squat in his lap. "You're okay," he insisted, even while inspecting for any cuts or bruises that might have happened in that three foot tumble to the sand. Still, nothing could curb his boy's tears, Gavin's bottom lip turning bright red as he wailed against such an injustice.

A string of incoherent pain babbled from his boy's mouth as Cullen swept his thumbs up to Gavin's cheeks to dry away the tears. The movement caused a momentary break in the biggest cries, but all of the fun was evaporated. Wobbling lip, Gavin tried to stand up on his father's thighs, insisting he be picked up immediately.

"No, no, we're staying in the water," Cullen told him, earning the same sneer he'd see in the mirror.

"No. Don't wanna!" Gavin sulked, spinning to give his back to his father. Still, Cullen placed a protective arm around his son's stomach. The two of them sat in the warm waters that were barely a ripple. Out beyond the safe pool there were squalls, and ten-foot waves, and danger. Here, he knew his son could come to no harm. Not as long as Cullen was there to protect him. Looking up, Cullen caught Lana's eye. She was laying on her side in the sand, watching her two boys carefully. Perhaps she was thinking the same as him.

How quickly their fragile baby grew to a tumultuous toddler, often running headfirst down stairs and into the stables without a care. How they couldn't hope to protect and shield him from the dangers of the world forever. The Commander and Hero did not accept such a fact easily. That was one day in the future, for now Gavin could always count on the both of them to pick him up and wipe away his tears.

Cullen leaned forward, placing a kiss to the back of Gavin's head. The boy absently swiped a hand to wipe it away, causing his father to sigh. 

"What that?" Gavin asked pointing to the water. Cullen had to rise up to see that hidden under a scrap of sand was something orange.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"I see," Gavin said, and rising to his legs, he began to waddle towards it. The water lapped nearly up to his diaper at this depth, but he didn't care. He had a mission and nothing was going to keep it from him. 

Approaching the orange curiosity, Gavin squatted down, his fists swiping through the sand to grab at whatever rested below. The water lapped near his mouth, both parents growing on edge though the boy paid it no heed. 

"What'd you find?" Lana asked, trying to encourage her boy to stand up out of the dangerous water. Cullen was about to reach over and help him up, when Gavin's head rose and his hands lifted his prize into the air. 

The sunlight glinted off of five splayed out legs on a rock-like body. Cullen exclaimed, "That's a starfish."

"Staffish!" Gavin declared, tucking his new prize or friend close to his face. "Hewo staffish." He began to rock it back and forth in his arms like a baby, their baby still squatting in the water. 

"Gavin..." Lana was yet on edge, sliding on her hip closer to protect him.

Suddenly, Gavin popped straight up, both of his arms extended high above his head. "Look Mummy! Staffish!" Which was when the water plucked the diaper clean off of his little butt.

Lana broke into a laugh at how proud her fully naked son was of his find while Cullen tried to fish for the lost diaper. Oh Maker, they were never getting it back on him now. All the fear of the water was lost as Gavin, with new friend in hand, stomped around the pool as if he was born into it.

Even as Cullen pleaded with him to stay put so he could get his pants back on, Gavin ignored him, whispering to his hands, "I wuv you, staffish."


	21. Lemonade (Sweet Flirting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian gets bamboozled by a small child operating a lemonade stand.

With a bit of swagger and the occasional waft of his hand, Dorian was able to ignore the unseemly glisten of summer sliding down his back. Or so he assured himself as he walked down the picturesque sidewalk of your average suburban neighborhood. A few adults stood outside, waving hoses haphazardly at flowerbeds, but for the most part the day was owned by children.

One of which was refusing to let him pass.

"Hey, hey mister," the scamp shouted, both hands waving for Dorian from behind a card table. A white poster board, glowing under the striking sunlight, bore the advertisement that this was a _Lemonade Stand_ which Dorian unfortunately had to walk in front of to get to his destination.

Trying his best to ignore the child's pleas for attention, Dorian managed to make it halfway past, when the kid shouted, "Come on! Cool, refreshing lemonade! You know you want a glass! It's for a good cause!"

"And what, pray tell, would that be?" he turned, curiosity holding him in place.

Before Dorian finished his pivot, the boy was already fishing out a red plastic cup from the stack under his chair. Beside him sat a girl in pigtails, at best four to five years old. She was busy coloring instead of diving into this business endeavor -- probably management then. 

"All the money we make, see, it's gonna go to this thing. Uh, good thing..." their little salesman was losing his pitch fast, all his attention on pouring a thin stream of pale-yellow liquid into the cup. "Here!" he finished, shoving the cup at Dorian.

"I never said I intended to buy any. I was only asking what the money was earmarked for."

"But," the kids eyes drooped, his lips snapping right to crying, "but I got it for you. Poured it. Special made by me and my sister. Why won't you buy it?" 

Fasta vass! The tears were coming quick and on command. Last thing he needed were people wondering about him. Groaning, he fished into his pocket. "How much? A quarter?"

"One dollar, please!" the tears vanished in an instant, replaced by a grubby hand clawing through the air.

"An entire dollar? For a single cup of lemonade? That's highway robbery!" Dorian froze, not about to bow down to a child's whims.

"But, but, it's already here. In the cup. Melting." And like that the waterworks were back, quite a few curious adults peering over at the strange man making a child cry. Damn it.

Snarling, he slapped a dollar into the kid's palm. "It can't be melting, it's liquid," he muttered even while taking the cup and nestling it to his chest. The entrepreneur folded his hard-won dollar up and began to stuff it into a lockbox under his chair, when he paused.

"You gonna drink it or what?"

Not particularly. Still... Placing the lip of the cup against his mouth, he let just a smidgeon wash against his tongue. Sweet Maker, did they throw an entire bag of sugar into this? With pinched eyes he smiled and said, "Yes, very tasty."

"And refreshing!" the boy shouted, trying to wave more people to his stand.

"Quite," Dorian gasped, dashing off to the house he wanted, which was conveniently two down from the lemonade stand. He was about to head up the trimmed walk to knock, when he heard the blaring of machinery from the side. Drifting over, Dorian stood with the cup of lemonade in his hands while watching a glorious man bent clean over.

With a whirring tool well in hand, he sliced through a thicket of weeds sending them splattering against the house's outer wall. Sweat glistened against those tan biceps flexing to a stretch, drawing Dorian's eye from the prodding veins up to the shoulders and down the sculpted scapulas. After that, they vanished under a cheap man's undershirt completing the gardener-hard-at-work look.

The weed attacker fell silent, the gardener's tool tumbling to the side as he drew a taut forearm against his forehead and swiped the sweat free. Crystal blue eyes opened and he smiled, "Dorian."

"I did not expect to find you getting down into the dirt," Dorian smirked, crossing closer to the man reeking of the sun, hard work, and pulsing testosterone. He thought himself a fan of clean sheets, air conditioning, and showered bodies. But finding him with cheeks flush from exertion, body glistening in sweat, and muscles aquiver as they waited for a new challenge Dorian's viewpoint was rapidly altering.

"What's that?" he pointed. A crude remark flared in Dorian's brain, but he swallowed it as he realized the gesture was to the cup in his hands and not lower.

"Ah, for you," Dorian said, stepping closer. The wind rustled through his love's hair smelling of clipped grass, summer heat, and that sandalwood shampoo he'd often find on his pillows come morning.

Reaching over with the cup, Dorian placed it in his love's gloved hands and smiled, "Some lemonade, to help you cool down."

"Thanks," he tipped it back, swallowing the gift fast despite the cloying sweetness. After wiping off the side of his lips, his Amatus smiled wickedly, "Though, I thought you were only ever here to heat me up."

Nipping his own bottom lip, Dorian's fingers rolled over his love's waist. The flimsy cotton, drenched from so much hot work, slipped upward revealing a tempting line of abdominals that looked as if they needed a good tongue bath. Hungry, Dorian swept his palm up his love's back, the muscles beinging to tremble as he pulled himself tighter to the man.

"I happen to come with many services," Dorian whispered, his eyes awash in the crystal blue before him.

"That so?" his love smiled, tender fingers brushing against Dorian's cheek before cupping against his waist. "I'm not certain if I can afford them."

"I suppose I can cut you a deal, just this once," Dorian said before diving for those wry lips that melted at his touch. Leather gloves roamed up his spine, as he took his chance to dig into the hot flesh under his love's flimsy tank top. Images of watching his love dressed in nothing but a g-string as he mowed that back lawn flitted through Dorian's mind. As the heat of their kiss increased, they transformed to what the two of them could do on a riding lawnmower -- the rumble of its engine aiding them greatly. 

His hungry hand began to slide from cupping his love's bountiful ass forward towards the stick shift when a peppy voice shouted, "Hey! Hey Mister!"

Both men sprung apart, turning to find that cursed lemonade salesman peering in at them. Oh Maker, he must have seen them kissing. Which he could tell the other adults around here. Dorian risked glancing to his fretting love a second before honing in on the child. What would he do? Shout for help? Cry for a parent to save him? Get them banished? Start throwing stones? Anything seemed possible.

Raising his hands high in the air, the child exposed another red cup and his trusty pitcher. In his best salesman voice he shouted, "Do you wanna buy a glass for your boyfriend?!"


	22. Camping (Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Alistair go camping where they run into Hawke & Anders

Cullen growled, his firelight eyes casting to the pair of fellow hikers they stumbled across on the trail. Or so they claimed. With neither tent nor pack in tow, he was beginning to question every word out of their mouths. In particular from that Isabela woman. She reminded him far too much of other charlatans he'd butted heads with over the years.

"Oi," a finger jabbed into his side, Alistair sliding closer over the dusted ground. "What's crawled up your backside this time?"

This was supposed to be a secluded hike, four days in the mountains with nary a person to talk to. His gaze flickered over to the prodding man beside him. Nary a new person to talk to. Getting Alistair to cease speaking required the use of both rope and duct tape, though he did have some in his pack.

Isabela chuckled, the gold jewelry around her neck jangling. Jewelry. In the woods. Who did such a thing?

Her partner wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders, then stuck a five pronged stick into the fire. In an instant, all of the marshmallows cindered to flame. But that didn't bother Hawke, his beard never ceasing to sway in a laugh as he blew out each one, then suckered the gooey mess off with his teeth.

"Your turn," he passed the stick to Isabela, who plucked hers off with her fingers. The pair chowed down, smearing the sticky white mess over their mouths with a laugh. They barely glanced away from each other to the two men trying to not watch too intently. 

"Oh," Hawke bellowed, "do you guys want any?"

"No th--" Cullen began.

Alistair lashed his hands forward to pick two off, "Yes, please." He crammed one into his mouth then turned to the prickly pear beside him. "Seriously? You'd seriously turn down a roasted marshmallow? More for me," and he popped the second into his overcrowded jaw.

"So, let me get this straight," Cullen sighed, not looking towards his companion who was slobbering to swallow down that mass. "You brought neither tent, nor proper gear, not even typical hiking rations, or anything to start a fire for that matter, but you have marshmallows."

"Yup, spotted 'em at the gas station just before the parking lot," Hawke grinned wider. "Thought it'd be fun."

"We're winging it," the woman winked at Cullen who scowled deeper.

"Sleeping out under the stars..." Hawke mused.

"While risking both lyme disease and being drown in a rainstorm," Cullen muttered to himself.

"Walking through the woods to chase a deer," Isabela answered back to Hawke, her ass scooting closer until she was nearly perched on his thigh.

"Falling off a cliff when you venture from the trail due to the lack of a map..."

"Finding that twenty-foot tall waterfall and jumping off!" Hawke shouted, one fist pumping through the air before Isabela caught it. She grabbed his hands to pull around the small of her back, flat out sitting in his lap now. 

Drawing a finger down his jaw, she whispered, "Breaking in the waterfall."

"Oh yes," Hawke gasped, wrapping his arms around Isabela and dipping her down for a kiss.

"Breaking in..." Cullen scowled, shaking his head. To prove his annoyance he gesticulated to the idiotic couple while turning to Alistair for backup. Sadly, the man was too intently watching the spit-swapping session to do anything more than shrug. "How are you two not dead?" he settled for instead, accepting he was on his own.

Hawke snorted, "I ask that every day."

"Nothing ventured," Isabela responded back, sounding more and more like a pair of bank robbers trying to lay low until the heat was off 'em. "Any chance we can bum a lighter off you?"

"No," Cullen spat out fast.

"Sure," Alistair answered for him, already fishing the green one out of his pocket, "Captain Prepared here came with three."

"In case the first two are damaged, or run out of..." he tried to reach past, not prepared to give an inch to these scammers, but Alistair was having none of it. Knocking his shoulder into Cullen's chest, he turned that rarely-seen glare upon him and Cullen sank down to his seat in the dirt.

"So," Alistair began, "you two got big plans for tomorrow?"

The idiots laughed, Hawke answering for them, "See where the wind takes us."

"What's the worst that could happen?" Isabela threw out.

Death. Dismemberment by a cougar. Starvation. Poisoned by berries. Poisoned by Ivy. Kicked in the head by a deer you apparently want to chase. Cullen had a long list at his disposal, but he shook it all away. What did he care if these two came to an untimely end? It wasn't his job to protect everyone.

Yawing, Alistair stretched his arms wide, one hand brushing against Cullen's agitated shoulder before clasping to him. "Welp, I'm more beat than scrambled eggs. Say it's time I use that tent that took ages to set up. You coming?" His eyes burned into Cullen's but he wouldn't look away from the pair.

"What about the fire? Someone should put it out and wait for any errant embers, before..."

"It's fine," Hawke said, "we'll get it when we're done."

Cullen snorted, "As if I'm going to entrust my..." Hands locked around his shoulders, Alistair struggling to yank him to his feet.

"Okay then!" the idiot shouted to Hawke and Isabela as if he seriously thought those two wouldn't burn down the entire forest on accident. "Thanks so much!" His vice-like grip wouldn't give for anything, Cullen forced to trail behind him towards the two-man tent they'd both carried for five hours up the mountain.

"No, thank you for the lighter, and the fire. It was great meeting you," Hawke shouted.

Cullen turned back, wanting to lay out how unimpressed he was about having to meet them, but Alistair gave a good shove and he tumbled into the tent and landed on his ass hard. The sleeping bag did little to curb his fall. Those idiots didn't even think to bring one of those, only a single blanket between them and the hard, muddy ground. Perhaps hookworm would get them in the end.

Zipping up the tent behind him, Alistair's silhouette butted close to Cullen's face as he whispered, "What's got you tied into a Gorton Fisherman knot?"

"Gordian...never mind," Cullen growled. "Them," he pointed to the silhouettes near the fire, "No, you!"

"Me? What'd I do now? This was all your idea, which I was kind enough to go along with. Bugs adore me, you know. They line up for miles just to get a bite on the ol' Alistair buffet, but I came along anyway 'cause you asked."

"But it wasn't supposed to involve them. Any them. And you just walk on up and say 'Hi, want to use all of our stuff because you're like newborn babes out here?'"

Alistair snorted, only causing Cullen to snarl more, "What?"

"Nothing, forget I said or did anything. Just gonna curl up in my private sleeping chambers all alone," he reached for his sleeping bag while Cullen fumed.

This was not what he had in mind. It started out that way, the trail proving rather forgiving for a bright day even as exhaustion began to set in. He hadn't been out camping in too long, his back not used to the weight of the pack. But the freedom afforded him a calm he almost never got in the city.

Then they showed up. Doddering fools trying to pluck berries from a bush. Cullen muttered they were poisonous and intended to keep walking, but that damn idiot at his side had to intervene. They weren't deathly poisonous, just knot your insides into a bow for a few hours to make you regret eating them. It was a learning experience. And now they were stuck with them, for who knew how long, suckering off of their supplies like leeches. Leeches making very...wet and slippery noises outside?

"What is that?" Cullen asked, glancing at where he'd originally spotted Hawke and Isabela's shadows sitting. They seemed to be gone even as the fire blazed. So much for putting it out.

Alistair rose from his bed, a hand holding his head up, when a very feminine and very loud moan broke from outside. _Oh Maker._ A blush burned up Cullen's cheeks, while Alistair laughed, "Well, when a boy and girl love each other very much..."

"I know what..." Cullen coughed, growing more uncomfortable at how vocal Isabela was. His face was burning, Cullen yanking up his blanket and hurling it down repeatedly as he couldn't find any way to escape the awkwardness.

A cool hand rubbed against his back, then found its way under his shirt to cup against the skin. "You know," Alistair breathed, that ornery breath wafting against the nape of Cullen's neck, "I bet you'd enjoy this trip a lot more if you yanked that stick out of your ass..." His palm swooped forward to dig under Cullen's waistband, "and put something else in it."

Laughter rumbled in Cullen's chest as his head dropped down, "Maker help me," he whispered to himself before turning to Alistair, "but I think you're right."

Grabbing onto the pain-in-the ass and shoving him onto his back, Cullen intended to give Hawke and Isabela a run for their money all night long.


	23. Carwash (Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Barris get into a hose fight. A literal one.

Straddling on his haunches, Cullen doused the soppy sponge in the bucket and began to dig into the wheel rims. Black water ran off the gleaming chrome for his efforts, bringing a smile to his lips. He reached for another rinsing, when water droplets splattered onto his head.

"Hey! You're drowning me here!" he shouted.

"Sorry," Delrin answered from the other side of the car, though his tone belied any sincerity. 

Grumbling, Cullen rose to begin excising all the bugs splattered against the bumper and grill. Maker's breath, did she drive through an entomologist preserve to get here? With one hand holding onto the bumper for ballast, he scrubbed harder with the sponge. His legs splayed out, Cullen bent at the waist as he fully focused on scrubbing the insect carcasses off.

Freezing water splattered against his ass cheeks, the force of the stream finding its way to soak clear through both shorts and underwear. Whipping his head around, he glared at the man he foolishly entrusted with the hose. Delrin barely bothered to turn away, his cheeks reddening upon being caught even as he shrugged.

"What? It was tempting."

"That so?" Cullen growled, his hand dropping to the sudsy bucket.

"Yeah..." Barris wasn't backing down, the hose nozzle drifting back towards Cullen's center of mass. 

"I see," Cullen dipped his head down as if in thought, when he suddenly launched the soapy sponge at Delrin's head. The man fumbled backwards, trying to swat at it with the hose. Thinking fast, Cullen launched off the pavement and rolled over the car's hood. It squeaked from his naked skin gliding over the polished surface until he landed barefoot onto the pavement.

"You'll pay for that!" Delrin cried, the green hose whipping around like an angry python. Cullen twisted fast on his heel, yanking up the second hose. Rolling on his side through the grass, he planted a knee, opened up the pressure, and sprayed an unending stream at the man about to fire.

Delrin stumbled back, sputtering as more well water splattered up his nose and into his mouth. Chuckling, Cullen turned his aim downward, the glistening water striking every inch of his shirtless body. At the thighs, Cullen aimed back upwards, giving two last shots against Delrin's chest as a warning.

"How could you?!" he cried as if Cullen deeply wronged him.

"You got me in the ass!"

"I suppose I did," he mused to himself before yanking the hose up and laying waste onto the man knee down on the ground. He hadn't been ready for it, Cullen fumbling back as he scrabbled to get to his feet. Delrin's stream kept Cullen running backwards, even as he cranked on his. 

Both men sprayed a hard force against the other, drenching them until their shorts clung tight to their bodies. It was a stalemate. As long as the other had a hose, neither could win. Hm. Glancing down Cullen caught both green lines twisting together. One was his, the other's Barris'. If he kinked the right one, he could win this. But which was which?

"Maker damn it!" Cullen cried, stale water spraying up his nose. Shaking his wet curls like a vengeful dog, he glared upon his opponent. Only one way to know. Stomping his foot down hard, Cullen snaked his hose around to point directly at Delrin's face. 

Both stared at each other, the water dripping silently off their bodies while they weighed up what to do. 

"One."

"Two," Delrin said, his lips pursing in thought.

"Three!"

They fired, water erupting from the lines, but whose was kinked? Who would dry while the other soaked? Cullen snickered, watching Delrin fall back, when he felt the worst possible outcome in his grip. Pressure in his hose began to fail, the nozzle petering out to a drip. Damn it! He guessed wrong.

Cullen moved to lift his foot, when a strong hand grabbed onto his shoulder. Barris' face hovered an inch from his, those green eyes sparkling as he realized the man's mistake. The round hose nozzle pressed against Cullen's hot skin, Barris' licking his lips in anticipation. "Sorry, Ser," he said, his hand squeezing the handle tighter.

"Hey!" a voice drew them to the door. She leaped down off the porch and crossed her arms over her chest. "What are you two doing? I thought you were going to wash the car, not each other."

Delrin's mischievous green eye caught in Cullen's and he nodded in agreement. 

"One."

"Two."

Both men swung apart, their hoses aimed at the woman just realizing her fatal mistake. "Three!" they shouted simultaneously, drenching her from head to toe. She screamed, twisting aside to try to avoid the water suckering her clothes tight to her body -- hands splayed out as if that might help protect her.

As they shut off their hoses, she stared down in horror at her drenched body. "How dare you?!" she shouted, thunder striking from her eyes. Delrin and Cullen glanced to each other, uncertain what to do. Lightning fast, she ran for the bucket, plucked it into the air, and threw the entire contents at the pair of them.

"This means war!"


	24. Dorian at McDonalds (Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's working his first ever job when he runs into the hot guy from the laundromat.

With his thumb and forefinger pinched into the limp potato, Dorian stirred the crimson muck clockwise. Absently, he scratched at the polyester collar digging into his neck while preparing himself. Coated in the tomato goop, he raised the pallid french fry closer to his lips and shuddered.

The growling in his gut told him to stuff it in, Dorian turning his nose up even as he plunged ahead. “Maker’s blighted breath,” he spat, swallowing fast, “how can anyone stand this?” It was cloyingly sweet, but at least the ketchup made up for the oil practically dripping off the fries.

He reached for the second, taking far too long to finish his lunch break, when he heard the swish of the front door opening. It’d only taken him a day to get used to that sound, then another to dread it with everything in his soul. Out of habit, his gaze rolled up expecting to find a family of six on their way to shitting all over the bathroom, but crystal blue eyes cut across the cheap tiled floor and Dorian melted into the booth.

Oh Maker. Do not look over here. Do not even turn. Just walk to the counter then leave…

“Hey, Laundromat,” the smoothest voice he’d heard since he recorded himself oozed through the air. Gulping and accepting his fate, Dorian turned to find Lavellan in the go-to business attire of button-up shirt and black slacks leaning against the booth.

So much of his earlier life was spent bumping into men dressed in the same uniform of the ‘I’m very important’ Dorian stopped looking. But on this taut man it took on a more ravishing appeal. The top two buttons were undone, revealing a glistening hint of a tanned chest below and the black pants curved tight to that ass which no doubt caused accidents on the way over. Even his shoes were top notch and polished.

What in Andraste’s name was he doing walking into a fast food joint?

“Dorian,” he coughed out, realizing he hadn’t said anything and couldn’t just melt into the plastic booth, “My name.”

A blinding smile dazzled against Lavellan’s face, daring Dorian to fall into that plump bottom lip. “I remember,” he said, his backside easing into the seat across.

“But you prefer to categorize me by my utter humiliation,” Dorian rolled out, then he winced his eyes darting down to the bright yellow name tag pinned to the cheap shirt that stank of fry oil. “Second worst humiliation.”

“See you’ve gotten better settled,” Lavellan commented, and then without so much a by-your-leave he scooped up two of Dorian’s french fries and dropped both into his mouth.

Dorian’s jaw plummeted, watching as he less than daintily chewed the undercooked potato apart. “How can you eat those?”

The man he hadn’t seen sight of for nearing a month and a half paused in his masticating and shrugged, “Open mouth, insert, chew.”

“I’m aware how eating works,” Dorian sneered, and Lavellan chuckled.

“Good. You never know with the elite. Maybe it’s like baby birds or something,” the man was without a care in the world, swiping a hand back through his luxurious hair. Maker’s sake, it was so thick, Dorian could get two full handfuls of it and have more left to grip.

“My observation was more how you can consume something so greasy. I feel my belt trying to buckle just from looking at them,” Dorian sighed, still having trouble adjusting to his new poor-man’s diet.

A snicker rolled up Lavellan’s nose, the bridge crinkling at the top into a lace of wrinkles. Dorian wanted to press his lips to them, feel how they’d crease against his skin. This stranger who kept appearing at the worst time slipped back into the booth, one arm resting comfortably at the top.

“It can’t be all bad. You got a job.”

“Yes, I am a grease monkey,” Dorian groaned, plucking his garnish uniform by the chest and sighing.

“I don’t think that’s what…” Lavellan began before falling silent.

He’d struggled for the first few weeks, trying his hand for anything he thought sounded good. Then okay. Finally, with rent breathing down his neck, Dorian settled for a job that gave him money. He thought himself above debasing his body for money, but in retrospect it would have saved his feet eight hours of torture every day.

Nimble fingers nicked off with another three fries and a nugget, Lavellan greedily chewing them to bits. “How can you hate this? Oil, salt, carbs, the big three of tasty.”

“I’ve never had this before,” Dorian admitted. He’d happily plucked in the customer’s orders, often calculated their cost before the cash register did, but had no concept of what he was ferreting over on a tray. Not until he found himself having to make use of the employee discount on food. “It’s…disquieting,” he admitted, pinching the fry between his fingers and causing white bits of potato to ooze out.

Lavellan’s blue eyes cut through him, as if trying to find the lie, but Dorian had none to give. Once again, he was wading in unknown waters feeling sharks brush against his legs. And there was that mysterious life guard swinging in out of nowhere.

“Man,” Lavellan shook his head, “you must have left a solid gold yacht behind.”

Dorian winced. Both because a solid gold yacht would instantly sink to the bottom of the ocean, and because Lavellan was closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. “Something of that nature.”

“Well, it pains me to watch you wincing as if you bit through a tooth while eating french fries. Why not cook at home? It can be tricky getting any produce but…” the streetwise man paused, his eyes drifting over Dorian, “You have no concept of how to cook.”

“I can…” Maker’s breath, this man was a constant hemorrhage to the ego. Dorian had skills, quite a few he’d like to ply with Lavellan, but none that seemed to apply to scrabbling in musty laundromats or serving burgers.

“Give me your phone,” Lavellan ordered, his palm held out.

“What for?” Dorian asked even while doing as told. He dropped the cheap thing into the man’s smooth fingers and began to drum his knuckles on the table. “I’m not afraid of the kitchen. And I have boiled water before. It’s not as if cooking is beyond me.”

The man head bent down into his phone smiled, “Good. We can skip the basics at least.”

“We?”

Passing the phone back to Dorian’s uncertain palms, Lavellan smiled, “You’ve got my number now. So you can text me whenever you want to get together for a little cooking lesson.”

Dorian thumbed through his menial contact list, gulping at the number now entered under Laundromat.

“Not to toot my own horn,” Lavellan leaned closer, Dorian splitting the difference so his lips blew a warm breath into his ear, “but I’m quite good in the kitchen.” Dorian’s eyes swung over, watching the man’s crystal blues crinkle as he added, “Other rooms too.”

Gasping in surprise at the bold move, Dorian scrabbled to think of a one-liner to both impress and dazzle the man. But Lavellan wiped off his hands of the fry salt and stood up. “Best be getting back to work. I’ll see you later,” he held his hand out as if they’d been having a friendly lunch, “Trainee.” Dorian took it, his perspective thrown off kilter. Did he imagine all of those hungry looks? Surely he wasn’t chasing after the wrong player yet again.

After stealing one more fry for the road, Lavellan drifted to the door. His eyes darted around the nearly empty seating front before landing on Dorian. “By the way, you’re cute in a uniform,” he smiled wide and slipped out of the glass door.

An unending grin lifted Dorian’s lips, his finger scrolling through the contact list as he kept bringing up Lavellan’s number. A man gave him his number, wanted him to call. Play it cool, Pavus. See how this whole cooking training goes, then make your move. He didn’t realize he’d dipped a fry into the ketchup until the red sauce bounded into his mustache. With a resigned sigh, he lapped it up, while wondering what Lavellan’s tongue tasted like.


	25. Marshmallows (Funny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt where people try to get Sten to eat marshmallows.

“I do not understand,” Sten growled. He flexed his thumb and forefinger, watching a white globule of sugar impact then expand with release.

“What is there to understand?” the redheaded woman laughed. She was often doing that, and often in his direction. “It’s a marshmallow,” she plucked another from the swiped bag but instead of placing it in her mouth, worried it upon a stick.

Sten tipped his head, watching the woman place it into the open flame. “It is uncooked, then? Perhaps poisonous if not cooked?”

“No,” she laughed, waving her stick through the flames.

“Then it does not matter that he has crammed his mouth full of them,” Sten pointed to the weak-spined human male who was clearly trying to impress the Warden.

His jaws were dislocated, white fluff emerging from between his teeth. Even with tears lifting in his eyes, he kept stuffing another in. It was hard to say if this was doing much to alter the Warden’s impression of him. Sten found the entire display disgusting, but most human mating rituals were to the Qunari.

“Who? Alistair? He’s…probably going to choke,” she admitted before sighing, “but won’t die from poisoning. Oh!” From the fire she tugged out the marshmallow and blew upon the end.

A black crust formed upon the once ivory outside. Sten tipped his head in curiosity, wondering what was supposed to happen next.

“Go on,” she said, “eat it.”

“No,” he insisted, folding his arms.

“More for me then,” a tan hand lashed out from the darkness to ensnare the burnt globule. “Oh, oh Maker that’s hot,” the elf hissed, tossing it from hand to hand until he bit down. White goo oozed from his lips, the elf rolling a finger around the mess stuck to his chin. His tongue lolled out, licking the sticky stain off of both finger and the side of lips.

“Zevran!” the redhead chastised, but the elf only shrugged. “That was Sten’s.”

“Ah,” his always rustling eyes peered over at the Qunari, “shall we do battle for the next?”

“You would lose.”

“Perhaps, but it might be fun to get on top of you for awhile.”

Sten grumped, “Only if you find all of your bones broken fun.”

“That is an excellent point. My bones, in as non-shattered a state as they can manage, shall be watching to see if Alistair finally cuts off his windpipe. But, if you want to try getting on top of me without the whole shattering me to dust part…”

A growl reverberated up Sten’s throat, the elf smiling and nodding. “You can’t blame me for trying,” he said, skipping away as if nothing in this world touched him. Like so many Bas.

“This is sad. Everyone else is enjoying them,” the redhead would not let him be. “Even Morrigan.”

He turned to find the witch nibbling on the edge of one, her teeth making tiny, unassuming bites across the white flesh. It was pathetic. Catching on that she was being watched, her eyes narrowed and she stomped away, throwing the rest of her ‘treat’ to the dog.

Suddenly, the redhead snatched away Sten’s only globule and stuck it into the fire. “Trust me, okay. They’re good. You like cookies. This is better than cookies.”

“That is not possible,” he surmised. In his travels with this ramshackle group of heathens, the only thing worthy of mention from these barbarian lands were the cookies. Sten already acquired two different recipes to share upon returning home.

The redhead twisted the stick around in the fire. “Got to get it just right. Too much and it’ll fall right off.” She pointed to her earlier failures charred to black briquettes on the ground. “Ah!” Yanking it away, the redhead blew on the ends a bit longer, then wafted it near Sten’s lips.

“Come on. One bite. Just one little bite.”

“I see no point,” he crossed his arms, his lips shut tight.

“You’ll like it.”

“Doubtful.”

She scoffed, “How will you know if you don’t try.”

Cursed to walk himself an unbreakable logic trap, Sten plucked the now charred globule off the stick. It lost cohesion in the fire, its form more malleable than before. Interesting. His eye wandered around the others all talking animatedly while chewing away on their treats. Even the fool had managed to swallow his mass down, the only Wardens juggling them back and forth.

He was Sten of the Beresaad. He ran from no threat and feared nothing but losing himself from the Qun.

With the blackened mallow from the marsh nestled in his palm, Sten crammed it into his mouth and bit down. The ephemeral voice of the Tamassran’s echoing from the cliffs of Seheron reverberated off his tastebuds. Sweet perfection dripped down his throat, Sten’s eyes rolling back into his skull as he fell into this comforting warmth that clung to his tongue and refused to let go. As tenacious as a Qunari on the hunt, this was no treat for the simple. This was a true warriors mallow from the marsh.

Opening his eyes, he turned to the sister. “More, please.”

She laughed, already filling her fire stick with ten from the bag. “That’s nothing,” she said over her shoulder. “Wait until you have them with crackers and chocolate.”


	26. Dragon Fire (Angst & Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders rises from the fight with a high dragon to find Hawke missing. This was based upon the image Space_Aged drew at the end.

“Look out!” Anders’ voice echoed through the bone pit barely before the high dragon’s breath lit the air beside him. He dived to the side, Varric quick on his heels.

The dragon roared, her foot shattering the ground clear up to the two range fighters. He lifted his head, prepared to roll, when smoke gushed from the dragon. Thick white plums coated the blood stained ground, hiding away all except for the massive shadow of the dragon.

Her grey visage raised up, the wings moving to stretch and take flight, when suddenly her body pitched to the side. The dragon weaved as if drunk, one leg slipped, and her carcass shattered to the ground. Anders held his breath, fearing she’d rise once more, but it seemed as if the beast was finally dead.

“Thank the Maker,” he sputtered, digging a hand into the back of his neck. Something wet and sticky clung to his palm and he grimaced. Andraste only knew how many more cuts and wounds were on his body. At least he had his eyebrows, without those how could the elf tell when he got in a good one-liner?

Rising to his feet, Anders stretched his arms wide, his staff slicing through the still smokey air. “You sure know how to throw a party, Hawke,” he laughed. “Good job on getting in the last blow.”

Nothing save the whistle of wind through the bone pits crevices and the burning fire chewing through wood answered him. Anders’ eyes slipped to the dwarf, who was patting his crossbow but bouncing up on his toes. She never took this long to answer back, to crow about every swing she took, ever masterful dodge. Hawke lived to replay her battles, often in violent metaphors and even more colorful language.

“Hawke?” Anders called, his voice staid even as his heart began to crumble.

No. She had to be all right.

She was the blighted Champion of Kirkwall. A legend.

They made a Maker damn statue for her.

With one hand raised, he parted through the smoke. The acrid fog bit into his eyes, tears springing in an instant as he called for her again. “Hawke, come on…”

Still, nothing save the giant corpse of the dragon loomed in the fog. “Please,” Anders coughed out, his lungs aching and the words scraped raw with each step. “You cannot be…! Tell me you’re okay!”

He froze in the fog, Varric and Aveline left behind to the mists, Anders nearly able to reach out and touch the warm scales of the dragon. There was no sign of her, no sign of a larger than life woman leaping from the dragon’s back and braying about how amazing that fight was. He remembered a spray of fire, Hawke standing in the middle of it as she always did. As if she was fireproof, as if she could survive anything.

As if she really believed herself invulnerable.

“Damn it,” Anders cried, “don’t you do this. Don’t you…”

“Maker’s hairy nut sack!” a boisterous and proud voice cracked through the fog. He whipped to his right to find an immensely tall silhouette rising from near the dragon’s back legs.

Anders’ feet took off towards the woman waving a broadsword around as if it were a fan. Her smokey grey eyes lifted from the destruction to beam into his. “Next time I say we should kill a dragon, please--?”

Leaping forward, Anders wrapped a hand around the small of her back. His smoke-stained lips plummeted to hers, the taste of charcoal transforming to joy, the scent of dragon becoming her. With plumes of red-stained fog buffeting around them, Anders tipped Hawke back, his lips never once leaving hers. His heart never leaving hers.

Hawke hurled her dragon-slaying sword the ground, both of her unbreakable hands swooping around to pin herself tighter to his body. She melted into him, Anders pressing so tight his furious tears turned to joy dripped down her cheeks. Tossing his own staff aside, he cupped the back of her head, Hawke’s lips playfully parting as if it was all a game.

As if he hadn’t for a moment truly thought this impossible woman dead. As if he didn’t fear what that loss would do to him forever.

“Never,” he coughed, rising away from her greedy lips. His nose brushed against her brown cheek. “Never fight a dragon.”

“None? What about the little ones?”

“Okay,” he sighed, “dragonlings are fine.”

“Those male ones, dicks?”

“Drakes,” Anders replied, then laughed as he realized she knew exactly what they were called. “Okay, you can fight those. Provided I am always at your side.”

Hawke smiled wide, “As if I’d fight anything without you.”

Ravenous lips plunged back to hers, Hawke quicker to answer in kind. He kissed her because he couldn’t tell her the truth. There’d come a time soon when she’d have to choose to keep him by her side or not, and Anders feared he knew what the answer would be. But right now he had her, and thedas’ sunrise seemed so much brighter for it.

© VoidTakeYou


	27. Leaves (Flirty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I asked for a fall-related request and got this for Lumidee where Barris and Cullen rake leaves together.

“We have too many trees,” Cullen growled, backhanding the sweat off his brow. The leather of his work gloves left a sticky trail across the sun-kissed skin and he blinked at the work piling up around them. Literally.

A damn chuckle broke from behind the old walnut tree, Delrin scraping the rake through the yellowing grass. He already had a good-sized pile of autumnal foliage crackling under the rake’s fingers. Each pass was only adding more.

“What do you intend to do about it?” Delrin asked, pausing in his own work to try and clean up the garden. He lifted the hem of his white t-shirt up to dab the sweat percolating off of his recently shaved head. How that man wasn’t cold in such a light outfit was beyond Cullen. First sign of a fallen leaf, he broke out his flannel and wasn’t dressing in anything else until May flowers.

“Chop a few down,” he said, lifting his head to gaze at the miniature forest that cropped up behind them. It was a wonder any grass grew at all for the leaf canopy blocking the sun.

Delrin smashed his arms around his latest leaf mass and walked it over to the master pile. It was nearly as tall as a ten-year-old child. “You know she’ll just plant more,” he chided Cullen as if his deforestation plans were real.

“I know,” he sighed, taking in a purifying breath. The sticky tar scents of summer faded at last. Only the woodsy scent of tree bark, crumpled leaves, and the occasional bonfire churning out smoke drifted through the air. It was the perfect time of year…if one ignored all the yard-work.

Cullen moved to raise back up his rake when they both heard Serena shout, “No!” clear as day. The men moved to action, fearing she was in trouble, but she was the one who came bounding to them. She was bent over as if trying to chase something that their eye could hardly follow.

Zipping faster than a fly, it streaked over the grass and towards them. Serena looked up, seemed to come to some conclusion, and shouted, “Look out!”

At that moment their master leaf pile they’d been growing all afternoon exploded. Dead foliage bounded into Cullen’s hair and mouth, his filthy gloves struggling to wipe him clean.

“What the…?” he began, fearing the leaf pile itself became cursed, when two tiny paws, a little black nose, and the biggest, happiest brown eyes he’d ever seen stuck halfway out.

“It’s a puppy!” Delrin exclaimed, dropping to a knee to scratch along the unexpected dog’s chin. It promptly rolled onto its back, inviting Delrin to give a good itch to her belly. The back leg began to go, inviting Cullen to join in. But he had another issue to solve.

“Serena…” he turned to the woman racing up to them, “do you know whose dog this is?”

“Um, yes,” she bounced on her feet — never a good sign — and bit her lip. “Ours.”

“Ours?”

“We get a dog?” Delrin cried in excitement. The pup was already washing his face clean in kisses, the grown man rolling around on the ground with her.

“Wait a second,” Cullen began.

“Before you get all huffy, she was all alone and I couldn’t just leave her there. She needs a home. What’s wrong with expanding the family a bit?”

When she used her pleading eyes on him, Cullen was a goner. His head crashed to his chest, a sigh rumbling up his gut, “Very well. Was there anything else new you wanted to show us?”

“Just these,” she picked up a box from her satchel, shaking it back and forth, a frown rising on her lips, “but they’re awful.”

“What are they?” Delrin asked. He rose from the ground with the pup greedily snuggled in his arms. After yanking off his gloves, Cullen scratched the girl’s head getting puppy kisses over his wrist for it.

“Cookies from the Dalish,” Serena said, picking up a grey blob with what looked like gravel inside. “Dear Maker, I have no idea why anyone would want one. They’re like chewing on dirt filled with worms, then someone kicking you in the knee for good measure. I’d rather suffer an impacted tooth than eat another.”

Cullen picked up one of the disgusting clumps and sniffed it. His entire face puckered tight, the stench more reminiscent of the stink weeds he pulled up. They were truly vile.

Big brown eyes rolled up to him, a stub of a tail whacking into Delrin’s side. “Do you want one?” Cullen asked the pup with tongue lolling out.

With a smile, he placed it into the greedy chompers. Razor sharp puppy teeth began to chew when the dog paused, its adorable face crinkled, and the mouth opened. Half-chewed dalish cookie plummeted to the ground, the goo looking more like cat barf.

“Guess she doesn’t like them either,” Serena cooed, petting her new baby.

Laughing, Cullen rubbed the pup’s head and buffeted the fallen ear. “We’ll have to get you something good to eat. After all, you’re one of the family now.”


	28. Golden Slumber (Sleep)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen sleeps in the Inquisitor's lap

Golden curls piled across her thighs, her fingers tenderly sifting them as she turned the pages in her book. Out of nowhere, a jab of pain twinged up her side. Instinctively, she shifted, trying to shake away the knot building in her muscles.

The lion slumbering in her lap winced, his once slack lips pulling tight into a sneer. She froze from her twisting, her breath held as she watched Cullen. He teetered upon both the waking and dreaming world, his eyelids fluttering as he fought against whatever side tried to drag him away.

Slowly, he succumbed to the thrum of her tips against his temples, the lazy crackle of the fire, and the warmth of her legs pillowing his weary head. Cullen drifted back under. Afternoon light, as golden as his hair, streaked through the window. She’d offered to draw the shades, but he shook it off. Worried she’d have trouble reading while he quickly slipped into a deep nap.

He’d began with his head tipped back on the couch, his exhausted body sitting mostly upright. But as the fade wove its spell into him, he twisted and turned until his curls piled up on her thighs. Only then did peace fall upon him, as if he needed her strength for his fights.

Still, the pain refused to recede from her side. She should wake him, shift herself. Maybe he’d remain groggy and pass back out, but…

The pacing woke her in the middle of the night. Bare feet bounding against the creaking floorboards, walking so fast it turned into marching within her dreams. She nearly sprang from the bed to find Cullen with both hands clasped to his forehead, nearly tugging the hair out by the root. His lips muttered incoherent curses, seemingly aimed at himself, until he spotted her darker shadow rising from the bed.

How he apologized for waking her, as if he had any control of his nightmares. He’d been offering to try sleeping elsewhere in the hopes it wouldn’t interrupt her rest, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Perhaps it was foolish to think, but she hoped the touch of her body would be enough to calm him. To remind him that he was not alone in this.

It was no wonder he was weary by day, struggling to make it even to the afternoon hours, when he collapsed into his nap. Trapped her under his burly form as her muscles began to retaliate from lack of movement. He would be mad to learn he caused her pain, but…

Soft gold, like the tips of wheat, sifted through her fingers. The wrinkles of worry, of command, of forever wearing his past in his heart eased from his face. She brushed her fingers over the scruff, trailing the hairs path downward. Bending as far as she could, her lips pressed a soft breath to his forehead.

With the kiss, Cullen’s slack mouth raised into a contented smile. His loose hand rose to cup her leg as if he were cuddling tight to a long-lost childhood toy.

She could never wake him.

Raising her book towards the autumn light, she turned the next page while her lap lulled the man she loved into a peaceful slumber.


	29. The Sext (Spicy - M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen tries his hand at taking a lewd photo. It does not go well.
> 
> The nakey Cullen was drawn by Space_aged.

“No, no, no!”

Cullen deleted every grainy picture he took, flinching with each thumbnail that nailed a writ of depravity upon his grave. Groaning, he tipped his head to the flickering fluorescent light in his bathroom. _Why was this so difficult?_

__

From the periphery, he spotted his naked flesh in the mirror. A jagged white scar ran down the back, which he kept to the reflection to try and hide his shame.

It’s not shameful. She asked for it.

He glanced down at his engorged cock, encouraged to its enormous measures from her first picture. (Then helped along with the next three) It was shrouded in a tuft of dirty-blonde hair he should have shaved off? Trimmed? Cullen settled for cupping his hand around the base to try and disguise it. Which gave the illusion in all of his pictures that he was trying to seduce her with a cocktail weenie instead.

Should the balls be included? Why was this so difficult? Every angle — be it from the top, the side, underneath — all looked idiotic. Something he wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy, never mind her.

This was never going to work.

Cullen was about to place his phone on the counter, hitch up his pants, and sulk into a beer, when the click-clack of tiny nails erupted down the hall. He barely had a chance to turn when fifteen pounds of pure muscle shoved the bathroom door open. Those tiny mabari nails clawed up his shins, the tail wagging as his puppy’s eyes burned up at him.

He wanted to know what his master was up to in that scary place with the no-no water bowl and the door closed for so long.

“Sorry,” Cullen sighed. Bending down, he cuddled his pup in one arm while trying to keep the phone away from those always chomping teeth. Didn’t matter how much strength was woven into Cullen’s arms, there was no chance he could outmaneuver a four month old puppy who intended to lick his face clean.

“Come on,” he laughed, his eyes tight as the sandpaper tongue slicked up his chin. “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” he couldn’t stop giggling from the puppy’s tickling, barely able to keep the puppy affection out of his nose.

A flash went off from his phone and he frowned. Twisting around the screen, he moved to delete the latest accidental picture, when his pup began to crawl up to his shoulders. “No, no!” Somehow, in his fumbling to keep the pup from accidentally hurting himself, Cullen pressed just enough wrong buttons he heard a beep rise from his phone.

The sent sound.

_Andraste’s blood!_

His pup hit the floor, already rushing off to chew on his new bed instead of toys. Cullen’s focus was on the phone. What picture did he accidentally send? And to who?!

Just as he was digging for it, the phone lit up with an incoming call. It was her.

Oh no.

No, he did not…

There is was. Cullen’s eyes shut tight, half of his puppy’s face in view, a pink tongue lapping his cheek, and his naked upper torso trying to hold the wiggly dog steady.

He sent a picture of a puppy as a sext.

She’d probably never talk to him again.

His phone rang once more, Cullen groaning from the depths of his balls. Accepting his fate, he accepted the call and placed it to his ear.

Her voice growled with an insatiable hunger, breathing across the distance, “I’m coming right over. Don’t you dare put pants on.”


	30. Alistair and the Sext (Spicy - M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sexy Alistair pic is by [Space_aged](http://voidtakeyou.tumblr.com/)

His phone should have been belching flames and burning through his hand. Alistair wiped off his forehead, honestly expecting to find sweat there as he read through her latest string of highly naughty texts. How could she even put these things into words without combusting on the spot?

Digging into his shoulder, he tried to think of a sexy response. Then a witty one. As the seconds ticked by, her winking emoji waiting for something Alistair settled for any response. “You wouldn’t believe how hard I am.” Cheesy, but that was his repertoire, so he ended it with a cheese emoji.

Her response was almost instantaneous, “Prove it.”

“Okay. Not certain how. Perhaps I can find myself a notary…”

“Take a pic, you idiot.”

The little blue box taunted him. Take a pic? A pic of…oh. Oh!

His thumbs poised above the screen, ready to unleash a great joke at his expense when he whipped his head back to the living room. Why not do as she asked? With his phone crammed in his teeth for safe keeping, Alistair yanked off his belt. It and his jeans crashed to the floor.

The boxers soon followed forming a trail of clothing towards his living room. Good thing he lived on an upper floor apartment or all the people walking past to the chemists would get a lovely view of his ass right now.

Spitting out his phone, he yanked his shirt off over his head, the last piece of the puzzle landing on the floor. Fully naked, Alistair worked quick. With his handy twisty lamp acquired cheap out of a box, he aimed the bottom light towards his leather couch. He tried to balance his phone on the upturned lampshade but it kept falling down into the bulb.

An idea struck him and with two rubber bands he tied his phone up good onto the lampshade itself. There was a minor bending to the shade, but his phone look unharmed. A bit ready for some naughty rope play itself though.

Focus. He fluffed up his pillows, creating an incline for his back. Hurling himself onto the couch. With one leg draped to the floor, he eyed up his trouser-less anaconda — ready for its close-up and then some — when he looked at the phone. The reverse image was showing him a lovely view of the top of his head and the ceiling.

Leaping back to the lamp, he twisted it around. For a beat, he made a rectangle with his fingers, trying to eye up the perfect angle. There! Alistair arranged himself back on the couch when another idea struck him. Fumbling for the coffee table, he yanked up a red rose and placed it in his jaws.

What to do with the hands? Uh…

Put them behind his head! His elbows strained higher, helping him to elongate his body and bring out all those muscley bits she’d rave about. Flexed a few of them too.

It was perfect. Now just to…take this damn picture.

With a smile wrapped around the rose stem, Alistair raised his foot higher off the couch. Just out of view of the camera he fumbled with his reach. His thighs started to shake from the stretch, the smile straining, when he finally bumped his big toe into the screen. A still image of him, Red Dragon and all, froze on his phone.

He moved to sit up, intending to take a few more just in case, when someone knocked on his door. Alistair spun on the couch, well aware he was in the all-together. He expected the solicitors to move on, maybe shove some menus under the gap, but the doorknob began to turn.

Yelping, Alistair moved to jam a pillow over his incriminating crotch area, when the door burst open to reveal the goddess of his affections. She whipped her head around wildly as if hunting for something. When her eyes landed upon him, nude and still clinging to the pillow, she smiled.

Her hands already yanking off her top, she said, “You took too long.”


	31. Everyone (Angst)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This story is for Karenita, who asked for a fic request of Cullen comforting Arashalla.
> 
> If you want your own fic request from me, you can fill out this [google form.](https://goo.gl/forms/Mt1DVXHhswPDjEli2)

Harried aides and whispering soldiers guided Cullen to the solitary shadow standing sentinel through the overgrowth. A rare warm spell tinted the air, sloshing away the snow to reveal green prodding from the muddied grown. Beside the silhouette rumbled a river, her bare feet nearly astride two submerged rocks. Cullen gulped at the sight, his mind conjuring a surge in the water and a tide wiping her off downriver. But rushing to her side and plucking her off would not endear him.

He was beginning to fear nothing would.

“Inquisitor,” he voiced with what little command he had left.

The shoulders slumped, her weary head lowering along with the arrow she had nocked. Slowly, she pivoted her chin to glance over at him — revealing in her eyes the depths she was drowning in.

Cullen instinctively took a step closer, which was when Arashalla trembled. He froze in his boots, the stretch almost too wide for comfort. But to see pain shattering her once frozen features knotted his heart to ice. With a gulp, she resumed firing arrows at the tree across the river. There were already five shafts embedded into the bark and she had no recourse for collecting them. 

It was doubtful she cared.

“People were…” Cullen tried to plow through the tension, as if his words could suffice. Josephine already tried a platoon’s worth and they got nowhere. What hope could he have? 

The wind shifted, brushing her long hair back. She never wore it down, at least not that he’d seen. Now it wafted like sheer curtains allowing the mountain breeze passage. In doing so, it revealed her neck. Sinew strained like sailor’s rope below her thin skin and a gasp rattled from Cullen’s lips.

“Have you eaten?” slipped from him, the worry clear.

Arashalla twisted in place, her eyebrow arcing at the concern. She ordered him to stop misplacing it, for all of them to leave her alone, before grabbing a mount and racing through the mountains. As much as he wished to obey Arashalla’s orders, the Inquisitor couldn’t be without protection. 

Returning to her vigil, she drew the bowstring so tight to her cheek the gaunt flesh bulged. “I can’t remember,” her dead voice intoned as her fingers released. The arrow stuck deep into the heart of the tree. Cullen turned from its strike to the rising red welt on her cheek. She did not seem to feel it.

“Do you intend to force feed me?” Arashalla spoke, her bow hand fallen even as she reached back for another arrow.

“I’m only…” Cullen began before blowing his cheeks out. Worried. He was worried. They tried to give her space, time. But it didn’t seem to be helping. This was…this was not the Inquisitor they needed.

“Here to drag me back.” She wouldn’t glance back at him even as she spoke. Her usually honeyed voice that flowed like syrup stirred into tea cracked as brittle kindling. Each word struck deeper at his heart. 

Arashalla nocked the arrow, her shoulder rolling back as she directed her aim for the tree. “Here to mold me into shape. To fit into the proper form that is needed…that you need…that I…” Her entire form began to pitch forward, her face racing to be punctured by the rocks. Reacting without thought, Cullen ran to her. 

He placed his body in the way, arms outstretched as she collapsed against him. Maker take him, but she felt weaker than a baby bird. Arashalla struggled to get her feet under her, to shove away, but she continued to slip against the slime-coated river rocks.

“Why?” she cried, her body abandoning the fight. It flopped into Cullen’s arms, and he scrabbled to keep her from slinking into the water and risking a cold.

He took a steadying breath, his brain well aware that he held the Inquisitor in his arms, even as his heart wept for the reason. Still, she was softer than he imagined the stalwart Herald. Even with her hair dull and dirty from days in the woods, he had to fight down an urge to comb it with his fingers.

“I train, every day. I struggle to save this person, to rescue that one,” Arashalla cried, tears burning in her eyes which he couldn’t face. “Forget my heritage, play the part. Suffer bruises, broken fingers, ripped off toenails. Bleed for it! And why?”

She folded her fist in agony, Cullen watching it rise. He clenched, anticipating her smashing it to his chest, but Arashalla merely held it as she cried. “Why do I bother if I can’t save him?”

Her threat collapsed along with her face. It burrowed into Cullen’s surcoat, the fur muffling her sobs. He winced at how uncomfortable that had to be, but remained in place propping his Inquisitor up. Moaning into him, she whispered, “Xanti, forgive me. I wasn’t there. What sort of Inquisitor cannot even save her own brother?”

“You don’t have to be perfect to lead us,” Cullen whispered, hoping that was the right answer.

When wrathful eyes emerged from his fur he realized he was wrong. Arashalla smeared the tears from her face and finally wrenched herself from his arms. “Lead who? Shemlan? Usurpers, spoilers, murderers.”

Was that all she’d ever see in him? All she’d see in any human? This was about more than his stinging emotions. It was about more than her. There was an entire world at stake and they needed her.

“The Inquisition is more than humans,” he insisted.

Arashalla rolled her eyes. “A few elves to clean up after you doesn’t count as a revolution.”

“It’s more than the people who serve in it, more than our allies, it’s everyone. Everyone in Thedas whether they serve for us or not. Every soul Corypheus threatens. Every mother who fears for her baby. Every father who puts his daughter to the pyre,” Cullen swallowed deep, his tone softening as he risked staring into her eyes. “Every sister who mourns a brother.”

Silence filled Arashalla’s being. Even her breaths collapsed as she turned to gaze out over the landscape. The mountains rolled below them allowing a view for miles beyond the eclipsing clouds to the hints of farmland beyond. There was even more to this world than what they could see. And all of it was hurting.

“You…” Her voice startled Cullen so much he jumped, a blush rising from the foolish move. “You said that your parents died in the blight.”

His toes curled in his boots, Cullen’s weary head drifting to eye up the ground. Tiny purple flowers punctuated through the mossy growth, each waving from the soft breeze as he could only spit out a, “Yes.”

“Do you blame the Hero of Ferelden for not saving them? For not stopping the blight in time, or failing to be there?”

He couldn’t. Even as his heart filled with hate, his soul rotting from the inside out, he knew his parents’ death was the fault of the darkspawn. Cullen twisted his head, trying to tell her no even as he held his tongue.

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling him from the purple flowers. Her eyes drifted closer, so near he could pick out every hue in her irises. “Do you blame yourself?”

Cullen winced at the personal blow. “On occasion. When…” Intellectually, he knew there was almost no chance he’d have been in the area to save them. But when the wolves prowled through his soul and the wind battered his mind, sense fled. 

“I am both. I am the bulwark, the hero to stem the tide that rends this land,” Arashalla stuck her chin up, her eyes meeting the horizon for the first time. “I’m also the sister who has to bury a brother.”

His hand raised, wishing he could pluck the grief from her. To attack every gnarled knot bundled up inside her soul until she could be whole once again. Limply, Cullen dug into the back of his neck. His eyes closed as he breathed in the clean scent of mountain air washing away the dirt.

Arashalla bent down and fished up her tumbled bow. He anticipated her to renew her vigil, but she hopped off the stream’s rocks. While running her finger down the string, she mused, “I can see why they sent you to drag me back.”

_What?_ His eyes widened at that, Cullen holding both hands up as if to stop any accusations from piercing him. “They didn’t. No one told me to… That wasn’t why…”

A miracle graced his sight; Arashalla’s lip lifted. It wasn’t for more than a beat of a hummingbird’s wings, but a smile wafted over her weary face. “So you came of your own volition?”

“I was…” Cullen groaned, once again trying to bury the worry he couldn’t escape. He could worry himself bald when it came to her, not that he really minded.

“We are none of us alone,” Arashalla rolled her bow back over her shoulder as she stood taller. “I fight…we fight for everyone. Elves, dwarves, qunari, even shemlan. Mothers, fathers, sick, poor…” From her pocket she fished out a small stone its blue hue brighter than any sapphire. It was worn to a smooth polish as she brushed her finger over the top. 

Placing it to her lips, Arashalla whispered, “Brothers.”

“I fight for sisters too,” Cullen said, Arashalla’s eyes meeting his. Her hand reached across the void between them and lay flush atop his forearm. His heart thundered in his chest, causing a terrible blush to form. “I mean we…the Inquisition. All of it. Fights for…”

A whisper of a smile plied her lips and she snorted once. “I understand your meaning and I’m grateful for it.” Releasing her hold over him, Arashalla turned towards the fortress tucked away in the mountains. “I must be the Inquisitor, bottle away my pain until…until we are free of Corypheus.”

“You don’t always have to be,” Cullen interrupted, grimacing as he remembered a young templar so hell bent on protecting the world from magic he lost himself to the armor. “You can still be you, with the people who care for…uh.”

The blush burned over her cheeks now, Arashalla trying to hide her face behind her hair. Maker. Could he have fumbled this any worse? Nodding her enflamed head, Arashalla squared her shoulders and began the march back to Skyhold. “Come on, Cullen,” she said, for the first time using his name instead of the title. “We have a world to save.”


	32. Birthday (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen surprised Lavellan with a birthday present. A fic request for Beth Jade Frye.
> 
> If you want your own fic request from me, you can fill out this [google form.](https://goo.gl/forms/Mt1DVXHhswPDjEli2)

“Stop trying to peek,” the frustrated voice of my Commander breathed against my ear. His hands were clamped tight over my eyes, cutting off damn near all light and leaving me blind. I eased another foot over the ground, trying to get a sense for where he was taking me. Knowing him, he’d probably pick up on that trick and insist on carrying me instead.

Which wasn’t such a bad thought, come to think of it…

“Cullen,” I laughed, his chest once again bounding against my back, “where are we going? We can’t have left Skyhold.”

Grumbling broke from the man behind me. “It is a surprise. One meant for you. No matter how much you try to spoil it.”

He seemed to have put a lot of thought and effort into whatever it was, but I was never good at waiting. I wouldn’t have burned the anchor into my palm if I hadn’t gotten curious and walked in on Corypheus. Which sounds much dirtier than it was.

“Hm…” I tipped my head back, my bun bouncing into Cullen’s armored chest. So he hadn’t gotten naked. Probably good since we were parading around outside. Though that would make for an unforgettable day. The scent of sweet hay freshly mowed from the fields wafted on the breeze. But more than that was the unmistakable piquant odor de la horse-end.

“Are we near the stables?” I guessed.

“Merciful Maker!” Cullen growled, causing me to giggle. He suddenly stopped walking and pinned me tight in place. “I’m going to let go, but keep your eyes closed.” For a flicker the palms began to recede before both slapped back in place.

“Are you going to keep your eyes closed?”

“Yes,” I promised, bouncing up on my toes and back into the dirt that I was certain rested just outside the stables. The sound of whinnying shored that theory up.

Once again, his palms began to free my imprisoned eyes, when they suddenly returned. “Do you swear it?”

I laughed harder at the thought of such a simple thing, but that only caused him to gruff more and no doubt refuse to move this along. “Yes, I swear on…that big hat your Divine wears. I will keep my eyes shut.”

“The big hat…” he repeated as if my blaspheme was out of the ordinary. I didn’t belong to their chantry, nor would I ever. Finally, the hands slid off my eyes, which I dutifully kept closed. Cullen’s wide palms swept down my arms, both worrying the weary biceps. He twisted me in place as if aiming me for an archer’s execution shot.

“Stay right here,” Cullen said. The hands released, but I felt the heat of his back remain in place. “You will stay here?”

“Blessed Creators, just go already!” I cried. “I have so much left to do today, it’s a wonder Josephine didn’t chain me to the desk.”

Cullen mercifully dashed off while I remained in the dark — both figuratively and literally. Despite the protestations I liked to raise, mostly to rile him up, I wasn’t about to disobey a direct order. Not unless he made it worth my while. Whatever this was, he was excited. Practically pacing around in the war room, the man asked every five minutes when we’d be finished. It was a wonder he didn’t scoop me up in his arms and rush me out here.

Sounds of scuffling broke from the barn — which I was pretending wasn’t a barn for his sake. Maybe it was a library. Outside. Filled with horseshit. So, an Orlesian library.

I waited patiently a few more ticks wondering if I shouldn’t call out, when Cullen — his voice panting — said, “You can open them.”

Light seared over my vision, my pupils preferring the coddling dark. I winced at first, my sight swimming to take in Cullen standing before the stable. He had both his hands extended wide as he shouted, “Happy Birthday!”

“You brought me to a stable to celebrate my birth?” I asked hesitantly, easing closer to what looked like the usual fare. Master Dennet was pacing towards the side, two of the horses were happy in their stall. Midnight was standing above a massive pile of straw, chewing away on whatever she had in her jaws. “Is this a human tradition?” I stuttered while pointing at the nothing.

“What?” His big smile snapped and he spun on his heels. “Ah, the blighted thing’s hiding again.” And the Commander of Inquisition armies flopped to his chest and began to pat the pile of straw. “Come on, little one. Come on out.”

“Cullen…” My voice tripped around the octave, pivoting upward to a question as I feared he suffered too much sun recently. I stepped closer, a hand reaching out to soothe his back and get him to his feet. Just as I bent to do that, I caught a flash of snowy white hidden inside the pile of straw.

A leg, thin as a toothpick, kicked at the golden strands piled around it. With another thrash, a thin white head broke free. My jaw plummeted to the ground. “A…a halla?”

The tiny white head, more rounded than the adults, prodded into the open air to take a great sniff. “Hello there,” I cooed to the fawn that couldn’t be more than a few months old. “Who’s a pretty baby? You are. What’s it doing here?”

I tried to focus on the problem at hand. A fawn that young needed its mother, needed tending, needed a clan to look after its needs. It was proving a struggle as the rest of my body ached to ruffle my palms over that cuddly soft hair and squeal about its big, black eyes.

Cullen rose to a knee, dusting off the straw that snagged in his armor. “One of the scouts found it all alone in the pass up to Skyhold.”

“Strange for halla to climb a mountain,” I mused. “They’re not really built for it.”

“We were worried, it looked so young, if it could even last a night. Then Midnight here took over suckling duties without a second glance.” He patted the trusty mare’s hindquarters. The mother of one older foal and now a tiny fawn, twitched her tail. Sure enough, the spindly legged halla darted for the tasty meal hidden below her black leg.

I was enraptured, my hands twisted together as I watched the baby halla that easily fit in my arms. How happily it suckled milk from a horse, its tiny tail twitching to match the flow filling its stomach. Cullen bumped in beside me, his arm swooping over my shoulder to hold me.

“He’s adorable,” I said. “Look at those little nubs on his head.”

As his hand began to rub into my arm, Cullen glanced his chin atop my head. “I thought, given that you’re our Dalish expert, it’d be in its best interest for you to watch over it.”

My heart swelled at the thought. I’d given up so much of the clan for the Inquisition, even if it was for a good cause. There were nights I feared I’d wake and find my ears flat as a shemlan’s. Loving one didn’t help to dissuade that phobia.

“But,” I gulped, “what about when I’m gone?” That damn responsibility I pressed onto my shoulders reared back. I couldn’t ignore the rest of the world for a baby halla, no matter how badly I wished to spend my days cuddled to it on the stable floor.

Cullen curled his thumb and forefinger over my chin, a smile rising as he first stared deeply at me, then glanced to the horsemaster. “I imagine Master Dennet will have no trouble taking up the slack. Provided you leave him with thorough instructions.”

“Never raised a halla before, but if they’re anything like those Drasolisks you brought in…”

“Shouldn’t be quite as tricky,” I said to the master who was doing his best to join the conversation without looking at his Inquisitor and Commander wrapped around each other. “For starters halla don’t breath fire.”

“Thank the Maker for that,” Dennet huffed before turning back to his work.

The baby released from its quick snack and began to hop around the stable. It hadn’t quite gotten the hang of its limbs, kicking first the back, then the front to propel itself around. Even as I was drawn to the halla fawn carousing about, I felt Cullen’s chin settle against my shoulder. His body formed a protective shell around me.

“It’s looking much healthier already,” he mused, “I had no idea they could…”

Pivoting on my toes, I turned and caught him fully unaware with my lips. His amber eyes burned into mine a moment, the shock of the kiss undulating from his mouth up to his brain. As it did, his lips softened from the hard purse of the Commander to the soothing pillow of Cullen. Our breaths curled together, lips parting between mouths. It was a far too scandalous kiss to be having in front of such a tender-aged halla, but I couldn’t help myself.

I missed what it was to be Dalish. To run barefoot through the trees. To stare up at the stars before bed (though that was easy to accomplish when sharing Cullen’s bed). To be an elf without reproach, without question. And he, that strange shemlan, brought a spark of that life back to me.

Curling my fingers through that mass of fur on his cheek, I smiled, “Thank you.”


	33. Sick (Sweet & Funny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic request just for you people, this one's a double feature. I was asked to write either Cullen or Alistair's LI taking care of them while sick and I couldn't help myself, I had to write both.
> 
> This fic is brought to you by Guess Who. I admit I've never written a story for a band, but I am an American Woman.

“I’m dying!” the wad of quilts and pillows moaned from the bed.

Sighing, I placed the tray of various medicinal tonics on the table beside and tugged back the whinging duvet. A shock of copper hair, dulled by the dark shadows of the drawn curtains, popped out at me.

“You’re not dying,” I assured him watching as the rest of Alistair’s feverish but intact face prodded above the coverlet. He drew the edge tight under his chin, just the bare tips of his fingers prodding over the top while the rest of him remained swaddled. They’d damn near stolen every blanket in the Keep, which he then proceeded to chuck onto the floor when the fever grew too much.

“Here,” I said, fishing up the tonic the local healer brewed up specially.

Alistair wrinkled his face at the color, a putrid brown that even turned my stomach, but he dutifully slugged it down. After screwing up his face and smacking his lips, he cried, “I am so dying. Look at this!” He jabbed at his cheek, causing me to cross my eyes as I started closer.

“What?”

“There’s a spot! It’s the deadly river pox!”

I risked inching closer, nearly bumping into him until I could make out the brown dot in a sea of them. “That’s one of your freckles! And who gave you a mirror?”

Mumbling, the ill patient who was suffering from a cold — nasty but certainly not deadly — fell back to the pillows. “I had to relieve myself,” Alistair whined.

“So you can get up,” I said, catching the man in a lie. He’d been camped in our bed for going on three days, insisting it was too much of a strain on his body to risk leaving.

“Only for a few moments, then I feel faint!” Alistair laid a hand to his forehead and pretended to pass out. “I’m more swoony than an Orlesian dowager watching a randy play.”

Chuckling, I rose to the floor and left the patient to heal all alone in his sick bed. Piles of letters from across Thedas awaited the Warden Commander’s attention, most of which I’d been ignoring while I served as nurse to my ailing… We never did quite work out what to call each other.

Who am I kidding? He’s my husband in all but name. Being up half the night to soothe his coughing fits cemented it deeper than any ceremony could. The lesser half in that equation was rolling around in the bed, groaning about the books I left for him.

Each one hit the floor with a complaint about how he’d already read it, it was dull, or he didn’t like the cover. I tried to ignore it, dipping the quill into ink and rising above to mark a letter to Arl Teagan, when the whine resumed.

“What are you doing?”

“Working,” I grumbled, trying to hunch my shoulders down as if that could hide away his complaining.

“While I’m sick?” Alistair gasped as if such a thing were impossible.

“Do you expect Thedas to cease spinning just because you’re ill?” I countered.

He fell silent a moment, clearly weighing his thoughts, before a rattling cough broke from him. It sounded far less damp than before, a fact that raised my spirits. “Maybe,” Alistair shrugged. “How come you’re not sick too? Doesn’t seem fair that I’m knocking on death’s door while you’re all singing with bluebirds, twirling in your dress beautiful.”

I shook off the thought of me in anything but my armor. “Dwarves are stronger than you humans,” I answered, trying to return to the parchment which was now stained with dozen of ink droplets. They must have dribbled from the quill while I failed to ignore him. Damn it!

“Well that’s super duper not fair. So you never get sick? Like ever?”

Abandoning hope, I laid down the quill and spun in the chair. Stone save me, but he did hew a pathetic ore. All that coppery hair was mashed to one side as if a mouse formed a nest. Darkness circled his usually sunny eyes, and his skin took on a more sallow pallor than usual. It was so yellow, I tried holding up a daisy as comparison.

His pale lip quivered, and he delicately folded a fist to his mouth to cough into it. No doubt there was enough phlegm for days scattered around ‘borrowed’ hankies. He was pathetic in this state but I couldn’t turn away either.

Rising to my feet, I watched his eyes brighten as I sidled up to his sick bed. The coverlets fell, revealing his soft blue pajamas unbuttoned nearly to his stomach. “There are a few diseases we can suffer from, smoky lung being the worst of them, but…” I dipped my fingers into the salve left at the side of his bed. “Your common ailments never seem to strike at us.”

As I crested my salved palm over his chest, Alistair pulled in a deep breath. It was doubtful the medicine worked that quickly, but he seemed to perk up immeasurably. Coasting his weak hand behind mine, he caressed me as I kneaded the salve into his skin. The muscles tightened at my touch, trying to remind me of the build of the body below. As if I could ever forget, as if I’d ever cease aching for him.

Dipping lower down his mountainous terrain, the salve ran out as Alistair’s chest hair petered away. My rummaging ceased, but he bundled his fingers with them and he butted his burning forehead to my neck. “Good,” he said, bringing a smile to my lips. I wrapped a hand around his mussed hair, trying to offer what succor I could.

With a shock, Alistair’s hand slid off mine and grabbed me by the waist. The damn fool yanked me into his sick bed, both his arms ensnaring me tighter in his grip. His lips remained pressed to my throat as I wound up nearly sitting on the pillows.

“Because you’re gonna have to take care of me forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and…”

Groaning from the bottom of my lungs, I folded in beside the fool, my salve-coated hand smearing the last of the goop over his stomach. As Alistair tucked me in beside him, clearly his plan all along, I whispered, “Next illness, Oghren is nursing you back to health.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s hand plummeted to his desk, fingers flexing deep as he struggled to keep himself upright. It would have been a forgettable moment in his day if not for the woman he was in conference with. The Inquisitor caught his move instantly. She was quick to notice details, a fact that kept her safe on the battlefield and a source of contention for this meeting.

“Commander…” she began, pointing towards his fist.

“It’s no matter.” He tried to shake it off, his throat catching with an itch that began when he woke. This thin mountain air was wreaking havoc on him.

She put down her pile of work, her legs crossed tight from the chair she borrowed, and glared at him. “Is it the…” her lips frowned and she shook off whatever word came next. “Are you suffering a headache?”

Wonderful. Any slight dip from him would be attributed to the lyrium. Shaking his head, which was incredibly foolish as it caused the walls to swim, Cullen insisted, “No. Simply a minor ache, probably due to the cold weather.”

“Are you certain?” She wouldn’t give up worrying about him. Then again, he did place all his problems in her lap. Bobbing his head, he glanced at the heap of work ahead of them. But the Inquisitor wouldn’t give up for anything. “Do you need to sit down? Take a rest?”

“Of course not,” he thundered, releasing his steadying grip and rising to his full height. Ignoring the winnowing blackness circling his vision, Cullen insisted, “We have much to do.”

Those piercing eyes wouldn’t break from him, but she did shift out the next parchment in a long list of work. “You’re right, first up we need to discuss the bar tab for the Chargers. While Josephine agreed to let them…”

Her normally dulcet tones pitched higher until all he could make out was a piercing whine. Cullen tried to shake his head to clear his ears, but that brought the blackness crashing down around him. He managed to make it one step, when his body gave out under him. As he collapsed to the stones, he watched the rotted ceiling slip by as his back shattered to the ground. Cullen struggled to roll up, but everything faded away.

Pain woke him, the throbbing kind nestled at the back of his head. He didn’t spring from the floor where he landed, knowing well to take stock of his injuries. He did not want to startle anyone either. Nor was it wise to…

Far too much light seeped in across his reclining form; his small window never allowed this amount in. And the stone floors were squishier than he remembered. Even with his eyes closed, he pushed his flat hands against what had to be a mattress. Did someone carry him to his bed or…?

This time he bolted upright, or tried to. White swarmed his vision, and a small hand pressed to his chest. “Hold up there,” a voice ordered him and he winced.

As the blinding light faded, he turned to find the Inquisitor sitting beside the bed. Not just any bed. The canopy holding crimson draperies. The stain-glassed windows offering up all the light of the sun-speckled mountaintop. This was her bed. “Where…what?” Cullen tried to leap out of the bed, but his legs were limp and…

_Sweet Maker! Where were his trousers?_

“You, bullhead that you are, fainted,” she kept explaining even while attempting to tug him back to bed. The exhaustion and pain wracking his body demanded he obey, but his body drew rigid. He was stripped to little more than his drawers while nestled under _her_ sheets. What in Andraste’s name was going on?

“Why am I…? Where’s my armor?” Cullen babbled, his throat aching as if claws ripped down it. He winced with each word, which she read correctly.

Pouring a cup of hot tea out of the kettle, she passed it to him while explaining, “You’re ill, which you apparently were too busy to even notice. The healers came running when I called for help. They pulled you out of your armor. Thought you’d be more comfortable without it.”

Maker’s sake. His hand shook at the thought of her having to touch… No. Don’t be foolish. Cullen placed the mug to his lips and took a sip. While the heat opened up his clogged throat, he grimaced at the acrid taste of burnt wood.

“Medicine,” she explained before he could ask. “Which you need because you are sick. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s simply a cold,” he insisted. “Not worth fretting over.” It’d been carrying on and off over a week, rarely bothering him if he portioned his energy out.

Her cool palm wafted over his forehead, Cullen’s eyes closing as he bathed in the balm wicking away the heat. But she was only checking him for a fever, of course. “You passed out. Could have bashed your head in. That’s far from a simple cold.”

“Why am I not in my bed?” he gulped, placing the tea on the tray beside a few other tinctures and poultices. Maker, how could he let himself become this ill? And to succumb in front of the Inquisitor!

She snorted, “No way anyone was going to be able to carry you up that rickety ladder while you were unconscious.”

“You could have left me in my office,” Cullen explained, wishing he didn’t have so much of his skin touching where hers would. A fantastical thought bubbled through his mind, wondering for the briefest of flickers if she slept in the nude. It was gone as quickly as it birthed into being, but he knew he was flushing from the guilt by the concern in her eyes.

“What? Lying on the desk?” she scoffed at such a thought, then frowned, “Do not tell me you spend nights sleeping at your desk?”

Cullen couldn’t look away fast enough to hide the truth, which only made her groan. “We really need to discuss your unhealthy fixation with duty.”

“It’s not unhealthy…!” he began, but as she drew her hand to encompass his wracked body tucked in her bed, Cullen fell to silence.

She dipped a rag into a basin, swirling it around until it was saturated. While placing it to his forehead, she said, “You need to know when enough is enough. To step back before you injure yourself worse than a goose egg to the skull.”

As the water seeped into his skin, battling the fever away, Cullen sighed in ecstasy. He reached up to press it tighter, but his fingers snagged hers instead. It was a wholesome accident, with no lecherous intent meant. Even if he’d never held her hand before. She didn’t yank hers away and he didn’t either.

“Corypheus…” Cullen tried to argue, but she was prepared for that.

“Is our priority, but defeating him means nothing if you work yourself to the point of death.” She plucked the rag free and pulled it into the basin for another round. Staring forlornly into the ceramic pot, she whispered, “We need you.”

Cullen’s gut churned at the bare truth rolling in her words. He pushed himself because there didn’t seem to be much use for him beyond his service. Beyond what he could give to the cause, to the Inquisitor, to her. More to her than he dare ever voice.

Her palm soothed over his forehead, trying to dab away the blush that his soul burned there. Once again, Cullen caught her hand, this time enveloping his fingers through hers. He couldn’t promise that he’d step away, that he’d stop hurling himself into work. But, it touched his heart to know someone wanted him around.

“Can I ask you something?” he began, watching her nod. “Out of every option available across this fortress, especially the infirmary, why am I in your bed?”

She drew her lip in between her teeth and bit down. With a shrug, her cheeks blossoming like roses, she answered, “You haven’t figured it out yet?”

A snicker drew along Cullen’s lips as he sighed, “I am notoriously bullheaded.”


	34. Cocoon (Sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fanfic request for Selina Martinez Oliva. She wanted me to do something with FHawke and Fenris. I decided I wanted something fallish, so here we go!

The blood mage’s head popped up from between golden shafts of wheat, her hands slapping at the air. Fenris wrenched his arm back over his shoulder, prepared to yank out his sword when Merrill cried. Armed, he spun through the endless field, anticipating a swarm of…something. It was always darkspawn, or demons, or blood mages who were okay for him to kill, unlike the one they let follow around.

But no magic slipped from Merrill’s hands, instead they clapped together as a small insect fluttered off the head of a wheat flower and took to the sky. Fenris snarled at the childish move, when a warm hand gripped to his shoulder. He needn’t turn his head to know who it belonged to. The swoop of the palm’s pads, the thin fingers, the missing tip on her ring finger — he’d memorized them and more.

“I thought you said this was an emergency,” Fenris growled even as the scent of amber and lavender washed from her hair. He risked a peek, a single green eye rolling back to the woman standing in her requisite armor. She came armed, because she was always so, but neither of the daggers were drawn.

“No,” Hawke chuckled at him, “I said it was a trip. You…” She prodded a finger at his taut bicep still holding his sword aloft, “assumed it was an emergency.”

Further down the field, both heard the blood mage giggling as she gave chase to a bunny or whatever foolish flight caught her fancy. Fenris didn’t sheathe his blade, his hackles rising as he snarled, “Why are we here?”

“Merrill wanted to find something,” Hawke laughed, striding ahead of him.

For a flicker, Fenris’ eyes caressed her backside and rolling hips. They were no gentle hills, not the way Hawke employed them. When he felt her eyes burning into his forehead, he twisted away from being caught. “Her sanity?” He threw out, the growl there to disguise a blush.

Hawke spread her hands out, both palms caressing the wheat tips. She threaded them through her fingers, a gentle twist bobbing the wheat. “Come now, Fenris. Aren’t we all a little mad?”

He snorted at the idea, then sighed in abdication. It did seem to be a prerequisite for trailing Hawke around. Which he did without thought, like a lost pup with no owner. Snarling at his own cruel mind, Fenris slammed his sword into the scabbard strapped to his back. As he turned away from the two women scampering deeper into the fields, his cheeks burned brighter.

Why did he come without question? She hadn’t mentioned Merrill being there, he was certain. Mostly certain. _Venheedis!_ Was he so pathetic that all she need do is crook her finger and he’d be at the ready? Sheepish eyes turned towards the woman with her head turned towards the autumn sun, shafts of light kissing her cheeks which were raised in a soulful smile.

Yes.

Didn’t matter how far he ran, how deep he dug himself into the hole of drink and reclusion, if Hawke called for him he’d emerge for her. Though… He sneered while watching the blood mage scamper after what looked like a pack of moths. Did it have to be in such dangerous and exhausting company?

“Fenris,” Hawke shouted. She’d made it further down he field, her back pressed near a tree bursting with apples. With a hand cupped to her mouth, she waved the other towards him. “Don’t be such a sour puss!”

That had the opposite effect, Fenris scowling deeper into himself. He cast a glance back to the city. Kirkwall was so far from their sight it almost looked dignified, even with the forges pumping black smoke into the clouds.

“It’s a lovely day,” Hawke kept on, “and we won’t have many more before winter rolls in.”

That was true. With a sigh, he glanced down at his hands. They’d had a busy summer, cutting through swathes of gangs that tried to prey upon travelers. It was a wonder he could even scrub the bloodstains off before fresh were added.

From the sun-soaked air a pair of paper-thin wings flitted in a loop and landed right on Fenris’ extended palm. He paused, watching the small set of wings flutter. They were mostly black, nearly glittering as if coated in powder, with green circles on both the top wings as well as bottom. Even with his breath held, he expected the butterfly to take flight immediately, but it seemed content to rest upon him for a spell.

“Oh, oh dear!” Merrill’s voice cut through the easy air.

Fenris cranked his head up, expecting the worst. Dragons. Wyverns. With her, golems riding griffins seemed possible. A cloud of menacing black rose from the field. It even threw Hawke off a moment, her back sliding away from the apple tree as she reached for her daggers. She was straining over for Merrill, as if to shield the drippy mage, when the black cloud eclipsed over their heads and flew towards the elf left standing alone.

Before he could reach for his weapon, before he could duck or even breathe, the cloud descended. Hundreds of black and green wings plummeted from the sky. They fluttered and glanced against his skin as a multitude of butterflies came to perch upon Fenris. They clung to him across his shoulders, down his chest, hung onto his arms, his legs, some flitted about in his hair. He was a living milkweed plant teeming with the gentle kiss of butterflies.

“Fenris…?” Hawke’s voice cut through the field, her jog slowing as she approached and eyed him up. “You’ve made a few friends.”

“What do I do?” he gulped, not used to being swarmed by something he couldn’t kill. They weren’t the slathering brainless darkspawn, the cruel and heartless Tevinter slavers. These were beautiful and fragile as a tissue. When the sun glanced off their wings, the butterflies seemed to glow a radiating green. A hundred of them glimmered against his body, which Hawke was slowly taking in.

“Be gentle,” she whispered, her hands spread out as she moved closer to the man trapped under a herd of butterflies.

“I am,” Fenris said, trying to not panic. He didn’t want to hurt the cursed things, but he’d also not like to be saddled with them for life.

Hawke’s eyes that’d been filled with the beat of black and green wings rose to catch his. The wonder in her face shifted, a blush varnishing her cheeks in its place. With a half smile, she said, “I know you are.”

She reached for him, trying to cover the distance with a slide of her hand. It didn’t reach for his shoulder to brush away the passengers. Nor down his chest. It was his chin she caught, her fingers dislodging a butterfly that found his cheek. As Hawke nestled her palm to the back of his neck, she pulled Fenris to her.

As their lips met, a multitude of wings beat into the air. It was a tornado enveloping their bodies, blurring his sight until all he could see was streaks of green darting around Hawke. Butterflies danced around them, Fenris wrapping his freed arms around Hawke. She melted against his unencumbered chest while heat brandished between their pursed lips. The once black cloud broke apart, revealing the green wave shimmering into the air. It flew further on overhead, away from Kirkwall and towards the sea.

Hawke’s lips softened as she ran them against the side of his mouth and up his cheek. Her eyes burned in his brighter than any light in Thedas. Rustling her palm through his hair, she smiled, “You’re free.”

Glancing to their conjoined hands, Fenris swung the pair as he snickered. “Thank you,” he admitted.

“I got it!” Merrill called as she hustled towards them. A jar was clasped in her hands, which Fenris peered at. Inside was a stick bearing what looked like a clump of white cotton stuck to the end.

“That is what this was all for? What is it?”

“A chrysalis,” Merrill explained, her eyes wide in enthusiasm as she stared at the sticky goo in her jar.

Hawke, her hand still locked around his explained, “Before winter a caterpillar crafts itself a cocoon to hide in. To keep safe. And, when the snow melts and spring arrives, a butterfly emerges.” Her eyes drifted over to Fenris, his sight boring into the white blob. From that came those delicate butterflies? Impossible to believe, but Hawke had never lied to him before.

As Merrill began to talk to her jar, telling it how she was going to keep care of it over the long winter, Fenris stared at the woman who pulled him from the crumbling mansion for this one day. The cozy air of an autumn afternoon, the ethereal kiss of butterflies, the warmth of her cheek pressed to his. It was worth breaking out of his shell for this.


	35. First Time (Super Spicy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When things get hot and heavy between Alistair and the Warden, he has to confess the truth -- that he's never been with any woman before. I wanted to write Alistair's first time as he stumbles through overcoming his anxieties and fears about forging the moaning statue. It starts as if the Warden never asked Alistair if he was a virgin and he has to confess the fact. The next chapter will be all the explicit fun stuff.

“So…” Alistair yanked up a fallen branch, quick to watch a pair of gloved hands try to cram something into a succulent pink mouth. Even with her cheeks bulging like a chipmunks she still looked adorable, her sharp eyes tearing up from both strain and surprise as she turned to him.

“You were the one to steal the last of the cake,” he finished with, crossing his arms as if he won a great battle.

“No, no,” she tried to plea for her innocence, but a spray of crumbs betrayed her. Clasping a hand to her mouth, Talia’s big brown eyes rolled up to his and she loudly swallowed. She didn’t lower her hand, but the edges of a smile poked out at both sides, bringing one to Alistair as well.

“I can’t help it,” Talia confessed, fingers digging into her braided hair to try and tug scraps forward. Some she pulled so far ahead they obscured her face, others snagged behind her long ears. Gulping once more, she admitted, “I was so hungry after the last fight, and…”

“And my lovely dinner wasn’t enough?” Alistair scoffed as if she deeply wounded him.

The traveling camp of weirdoes and castoffs straddled around the fire behind them and to the left. Here they were away from the prying eyes but also the smoke to repel all the greedy insects. Talia took up first watch, leaving most of the previously described weirdoes to sit around the fire trying to not catch each other’s eye. Alistair grew bored in ten minutes and stalked off to the bushes to find her, where he discovered an even graver secret — the identity of the cake thief. She made off with damn near forty of them already.

Crumbling more than the sweet treats, Talia hunched over on the rotting log she picked for a bench. Her elbows dug into her leather-clad thighs, fingers tenting together as she whispered, “You’re not…you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

Alistair bent clean over, and then some (she was positively fairy-sized), until his eyes met with her shy ones. With a smile turning radiant upon his lips, he declared, “Never,” and dove forward. Talia met him halfway, her frosting-coated lips melting against his. Heat bounced about inside him like an excited puppy, rising from his gut and bursting bubbles up his spine until it found the brain.

They hadn’t been at this whole kissing and macking stage for very long, a few weeks maybe. It was hard to tell when the only calendar they had access to was dug into the dirt with a stick. The newness left Alistair sitting on pins and needles for the next taste. He’d fidget endlessly, waiting for her to finish speaking with someone, or to pull her into a private corner in order to envelop his arms around her lithe body and tumble into bliss.

Barely satiated, Alistair pulled back, his lumbar region complaining about the reach. It took a moment for Talia’s eyes to open, her glistening lips partially obscured as if she was about to pucker up for another. When she did glance up, a hint of a rosy blush burned over her cheeks. Hard to imagine someone like him could put that there.

“How come,” Talia coughed a moment, “how come I never see you ravenous?”

“Discipline,” Alistair shrugged, collapsing to the log beside her. It threatened to sunder in half from his greater weight, which caused both Grey Wardens to glare at the crack. With that example, Talia crossed her arms. “What? It takes great discipline to stuff as much breads and cheeses in my gullet as I can before someone spots me. Been training my whole life. Up at dawn, performing stretches, then shoveling in every manner of food I can scrounge up from across the entire estate.”

That caused her to laugh. Maker, what that laugh did to him. He’d wear comical pants and paint his face like an Orlesian if it’d get a chuckle from her. Anything to feel that rush of joy exploding through his veins.

“Really?” Talia turned so she could face him. “Because you don’t look fat.” Her finger prodded through the small layer of armor padding, causing Alistair to skitter back. A dangerous light glinted in her eye, and her attack grew in strength.

“I…I happen to…wear it well,” he spat out, trying to dodge her proddings by twisting, but she’d found a fun game. Well, two could play at that.

Lashing out with both hands, Alistair cupped against her waist. Her forest green armor fell flush from his touch, warmer than he’d have expected. For a beat Talia paused, curious to see what he was going to do, when Alistair’s fingers began to turn into curious spiders.

“No…” she squirmed, but she couldn’t escape the dance of his fingertips up and down her sides. “No. No!” The laugh returned instantly, Talia giggling as he tickled her to pieces. “You’re a horrible man!” She gasped, snorting from the laughter as he circled from her trim waist that hid the cake up her ribcage.

In her flailing, her legs starting to rise as if she intended to kick him, another adverse reaction occurred. Alistair kept his hands steady while her chest did not remain so. By twisting to the side, Talia curled a soft cup of flesh into his palm. Sure, there were buckles in the way. Leather. Probably straps and other roguish things. But he was holding it.

A woman’s breast. Her breast.

“Oh Maker,” Alistair moved to yank his hand away, his hair blushing red, when Talia hooked her legs around his waist. He glanced down at the lock in surprise and he was met by her mischievous eyes.

A pink tongue darted out to lap her lips, her voice dipping lower as she said, “Don’t stop.”

“As—” He wanted to find a joke, something to diffuse the situation. Make her laugh, put it all back to the way it was and… Blessed Andraste, no he didn’t. How bloody often did he lay in his tent wondering what that lithe elf that was their only hope in this world felt like? Looked like…without any knickers on? Far too often for him to ever confess it, that much was sure.

And she’s letting you, encouraging you. Stop being an idiot!

Alistair dove for her, his exploring hand remaining where it started while his lips hungered for hers. A spicy heat wafted off her tongue, its wily ways wetting at first his lips then down his chin. Talia drew her teeth together, softly nibbling at the smattering of scruff and causing Alistair’s foot to tap erratically on the ground.

Even with the leather and aforementioned buckles in the way, he felt the stirring of a nub growing more pronounced below his palm. That had to be her… _Blessed Maker_. He may have devoted quite a few hours to wondering what color they were. Size. If he’d ever get a chance to find out.

Talia slipped her palm lower off his shoulder to cup his elbow with the hand lost and alone. Taking control, she guided that forlorn appendage up to her… Right, they came in pairs. The second Alistair’s palm cupped against her breast, his fingers took command. They scooped inward, pressing upon the giving flesh below. It was so much more bouncier than he’d imagined.

Young Alistair presumed they were like pillows, all fluff and air like goose down. But this was— Blighted void, this was endlessly better.

With both hands massaging her breasts, Alistair drew his lips to the side of her beautiful neck. Dark hairs tickled his forehead, the downed ones trying to distract him but nothing could as he suckled upon the thin skin. Talia shuddered in his grip, her eyes closed tight as she moaned elvish.

Lapping up a fold of her skin, Alistair scraped his teeth and nuzzled deeper. A warm hand grabbed his head, pulling it even tighter to her beautiful flesh. So much heat radiated off her smooth as silk skin. She tasted of the forest after a cleansing rain, and apples plucked fresh from the tree. At her swooping jawline, Alistair pressed a delicate kiss right before he began to scale her steepled ear with his tongue.

Talia’s hand dropped from his hair, her fingers ceasing their sudden brushing. He was about to step back, probably release his never ending coddling of her chest, when she grabbed onto his belt.

“Wait,” Alistair ducked his crotch back as fast as a snake strike. “Wait, wait, wait…” With his hands plummeting off of her delectable round bits, he skittered even further away. Those palms that’d been wrapped around two perfect peaches were now trying to hide away the bulge he should have known would get in the way. It had a habit of doing that.

It took a moment for Talia to blink away the stars in her eyes, her head swiveling up to him. “What’s the matter? We’re alone.” She reached for his arm, but Alistair dodged, his brain pumping deadly acid through his soul. Danger danger. Look at what you did!

“Is something,” Talia gulped and he heard the worst sound in the world — tears clinging to her eyes. With a sniffle she forced out, “Wrong?”

“Yes,” Alistair mumbled, then he shook his head, “No. I mean, not with you. You’re…you’re so very you. Which is a good thing. Really. It’s…I should go. Yep. That’s all on me. Not you. Me, really. Going to go now.” His body stumbled through the woods sending his ass bouncing against tree trunks. The pain didn’t register because his brain could only accept the agony rising in her face.

Stupid. Alistair spun on his feet and dashed for his tent. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He wanted to whack himself in the head a few times, but as he approached the fire, that damn witch cast her piss-yellow eyes his way.

Damn it. She didn’t know he just made a colossal fool out of himself, did she? Was she being her usual sneaky witch self? Spying on him stumbling about like the moron she knew him to be? Or did she use her magic to just…know things? Things no one should know!

“Idiot —” Morrigan began, but Alistair was in no mood. All but running so fast he could flatten it, Alistair leapt into his tent and tried to seal the door shut.

_What did you do?_

_Why did you do that?_

Pretty girl, who really wanted to…to remove her clothing and then do the thing people do without that in the way. You’re supposed to want that.

Maker’s breath.

Alistair collapsed to his knees, banging his head into the ground.

He did want it. Dreamed of it. Thought about it so much it was a wonder he could walk straight. But…damn, damn, damn it all!

This was supposed to be easy. Bees did it, birds did it, Zevran practically crowed about it every second he was awake. But of course, it should come as no surprise that the colossal fool of a Warden could muck it all up. Be a man, already. _Just ignore that quaking fear in the pit of your stomach you’re pretty sure is not remnants of the bean dinner._

What kind of coward is afraid of… _it_?

Alistair scraped at his cheeks, leaving lines of white flesh in his wake. “This coward,” he muttered, when he spotted a shadow arriving outside his tent. It was shapely and short, so probably not Sten’s. Holding his breath, he groaned when he heard what he knew was coming.

“Alistair?” Talia asked, his name warbling from the hurt in her voice. “Can, uh, can we talk?”

Scraping himself a few more times as if leaving small red welts down his face would repel her, he sighed, “Sure. Why not? Couldn’t get much worse.” He tried to whisper that last part to himself, but as Talia’s head prodded through the tent gap he gulped from the sting in her eyes. She heard it.

“You, um,” she twisted to make certain the tent was closed before taking a knee to avoid the low ceiling. Though, she came in such a tiny package she could probably stand up without worrying. It seemed more to meet Alistair eye to eye, who was trying to hide his shameful gaze anywhere possible.

Damn. Should have put that old templar helmet on. That’d have obscured both his face and the burning pit that had been his cheeks.

“It seemed as if…” Talia worried her poor thighs, the leather crackling from such an abuse. “I thought things were going well, until…” Pinching her eyes tight, she spat out, “Did I do something wrong?”

He shouldn’t have but a stupid laugh broke from his throat. She didn’t do anything wrong. She couldn’t do anything wrong. She was perfect. It was that cursed fool who couldn’t stop following her around, stealing glances from across the road, dreaming of her.

Aware that he’d set off on the wrong foot, Alistair tried to reposition and start again. “It isn’t you, it’s…me. Really. I swear. Cross my crossed thing. Legs?” That sounded more accurate given the situation. Pulling in a deep breath that stung of ash, Alistair confessed the truth, “I’ve never done that…with anyone.”

That surprised her, Talia’s face crinkling as she turned to him, “Never done what? Run out on someone?”

“No, no,” Alistair shook his head, clinging to anything other than the truth, “if I’m overwhelmed, or forgot to put on pants, or am staring down an entire salivating horde of darkspawn while armed only with a fork I’ll happily turn tail and run. It’s more…” That you’re stalling. She was gonna laugh. No, worse. She’d laugh, then tell everyone so they could all laugh.

Laughs all around.

“I’m, um,” he flexed his face, trying to crinkle his honker of a nose so deep inward it’d vanish, “inexperienced with women.”

“Inex…?” Talia began, before the shroud of confusion lifted from her eyes. Alistair girded his unused loins, but it wasn’t a braying laugh she bathed him in. “Really?” gasped from her lips.

“Uh,” his useless hands lifted, his shoulders shrugged, his head bobbed like a boat on the waves, “yeah. Really.”

“I just…” Her diamond sharp eyes that he’d catch flickering over his body took their time. As they rounded about his churning gut and down to his aching thighs, she said, “I can’t believe it.”

Alistair snickered, “Why not? I mean, you know me… That Alistair, always finding himself covered in mud and wondering how he got stuck up that tree in the first place. That’s, uh…” Not helping.

“But you’re…” she expanded her hands out as if whatever Talia considered obvious would appear between them. “Never? Not even once?”

Maker’s breath, why couldn’t this have gone, “I’m a virgin?” “You’re serious? That’s pathetic, leave me alone.” Okay, he didn’t really want it to take that route, but it’d be far less humiliating than having a girl wonder what his problem was.

What was his problem?

Digging into the back of his neck with both hands, Alistair craned his head up to the ripped canvas roof. “There weren’t a lot of opportunities. Abbies aren’t known for their rollicking orgies, not unless you get into the wine making ones. It’s…”

“So,” her soft hand reached out between them and cupped his elbow. It was yet hanging freely in the air, Alistair unable to release himself or look down. No doubt his entire throat was ruby red from the body-sized blush. “It’s a matter of you not having the opportunity?”

“Yes,” he spat out fast, before gulping. _You just had the opportunity before you and ran from it, moron._ “Maybe. No? I only, I was raised more…traditionally.”

“Nothing until marriage?”

“Not that traditionally,” Alistair spat out so fast it brought a flicker of a smile to her lips. His tugged in response, wanting so badly to yank this conversation back to the land of irreverence. But no, he needed to tell her. To explain…once he figured out his reticence for himself.

Closing his eyes, he let his head slump forward, both hands plummeting into his lap. The truth, the real rotten truth buried so deep inside he forgot it even existed was that he was scared. Terrified that he’d, well, be himself. Somehow fail so spectacularly that not only would Talia run from his affections, she’d banish him from the Wardens, from Ferelden. Maybe Thedas itself.

It was like running out into the middle of an Orlesian dance where he didn’t know any of the steps, but if he botched a one it’d be off with his head. Not only did he not know that dance, he had no concept of dancing in general and someone knotted his laces together for good measure. Stupid.

He should have just gotten it over with before. There were ladies of purchased affection who’d cozy up to both Templars and Wardens. But no, while his fellows at arms were happy to fork over a few coins for a roll, Alistair abstained. He thought he wanted to be…to care for her, to feel safe enough he could be himself with her. All that did was leave him as unknowledgeable as before, and likely to break his own heart from his stupidity.

“It’s…pathetic.” His brain stumbled for a joke, any in particular didn’t matter how bad it was, while his heart thudded to a crawl. “Like finding a grown man who can’t use a spoon. And I don’t know how anyone puts up with Oghren in bed or at a table.”

“Ali…” From the darkness, her hands scooped around his. They were so tiny in comparison. He’d laughed that she had to use daggers because she couldn’t hold a sword in her small grip. Now, as they swaddled the back of his useless hands, she looked the giant.

Slowly, she weaved her calloused fingers through his, locking them together in an embrace. “I don’t think it’s pathetic.”

“You don’t?”

“Do you judge me for having already been with others before?” Her voice wavered in the air, fading to almost nothing before reaching the end of her question. They hadn’t talked about it, he hadn’t thought about it.

He hadn’t cared.

“No.” Alistair shook his head bringing a grateful smile to her lips.

“Then I afford you the same,” she laughed, her soft palm cupping his cheek. It felt cool against his shameful blush, calming the burn. With a gulp, he turned in her grip, his lips brushing against her comforting skin.

“I’m glad you told me,” Talia whispered, “because there’s no chance I would have ever guessed.”

“Really?” he scoffed back, forever confused by her thoughts.

“You should check a looking glass some time,” her eyes darted down his chest, which she’d seen stripped clean of all armor on occasion. Usually, as he was peeling out from the washing lake to his tent because there was a kindly nest of hornets who needed to use the place next.

Talia drew her lip in between her teeth and bit down, her eyes burning even by the lowlight. “I like you, Alistair. And I don’t mind waiting until you’re ready.”

Maker’s breath, he wanted her.

_No, no, you still know about this as much as jamming a stick into a hole. The flutters in your gut, and the sweat building up on your forehead tell a different tale._

“I like you too, Tal.” He scooted forward on his knees, his hands swooping around the small of her back. Catching her lips in a kiss, the wasp’s nest in his gut transformed into pretty butterflies. Each one flitted up to his heart and perched there, radiating a satiety he didn’t think he’d ever know.

With his nose burrowing into her cheek, he spoke with his lips glancing against the side of hers, “Even if I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she playfully swatted at him, a laugh filling her worn face, “you do too, you goof.”

Bundling up both her hands in his, Alistair pressed quick kisses to both sets of knuckles, then one for each paired up fingertip. “This goof of yours should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow of stabbing, bashing, kicking. Thought I might change it up a bit with a dash disemboweling. You know, to entertain the cheap seats.”

Her rich smile soothed the last of his aches, Talia pulling her hands free as she moved towards the tent door, “All right. I’ll let you sleep, disemboweler.” Pausing before her exit, in a breathy voice she asked, “You will tell me when you’re ready?”

Nodding, Alistair raised a finger to his chest, “Cross my heart.”

“Good night, Alistair.”

The tent flap fluttered shut at her loss, Alistair pressing his fingers that smelled of her to his lips. “Sweet dreams,” his eyes swung over to his wadded up bedroll, “because I can guarantee you’re going to be in mine.”

* * *

 

This was it.

Alistair moved to smash his useless sausages for fingers together, as if a clap would prove him to be valuable, but in his state he missed completely. One hand sailed through the air while the other clanged against the metal bit strapped to his cuirass. Its call rang out over the campsite, beckoning everyone to look over at the man who went from bouncing nervously on his toes to breaking out in a rash.

Gulping and waving that errant hand which was probably going to bruise tomorrow, Alistair tried to ignore the concerned looks from Leliana and Wynne, the snake glare from the witch, and a…disturbingly smug one out of the elf. What did he know?

“Ali…”

Forgetting Zevran instantly, Alistair turned to the reason he could feel a river of sweat sliding down his back. With a smile forming from his lips down to his toes, he turned to the person he really wanted and feared to speak with.

It’d been forever since they last saw each other. Three days to be precise, Talia saying that she’d need Sten in their trek through the forest. Something about requiring someone really tall so they didn’t get lost. And also that Alistair needed to rest a minor stab wound from a genlock. He’d thought it a nice break…for all of about thirty minutes until his heart lodged in his throat and refused to get down.

What if she was injured? What if she was distracted and didn’t feel darkspawn creeping up on them? What if…?

The fretting was all for naught, Talia and the others rolling back into camp by a late afternoon sun little worse for the wear. Okay, Morrigan looked as if she got into a fight with a bear, but that seemed to be her preferred attire style. And, Alistair would only feel sorry for the bear. The moment his eyes locked upon Talia’s return, he shook away every damn fear that’d been clogging his tongue and vowed to march over to her.

It only took him an hour of the others busying themselves for dinner to get as close as banging his knuckles into his belt buckle.

Talia had her hair all bunched up at the top of her head in one of those round things girls do. Maker, he wanted to rustle it apart and dive his fingers through her ebony locks. Instead, Alistair settled for limply digging his bruised knuckles into a hip and jutting one out in an attempt to appear collected. It was clearly not working, judging by the snickering from the assassin.

“Was there…something you wanted to tell me?” Her beguiling eyes darted across his chest before tumbling into his sight. Achingly slow, she drew the wet, pink tip of her tongue against her rosy lips, leaving Alistair even more dumbfounded than before. Which was bad since he started dumb and couldn’t get much further down.

“I missed you,” he blubbered, his foolish hand trying to cut through the gap between them. Brush up the side of her leathers, tousle in her hair, cup the nape of her neck and tug her to him for a kiss.

“It was three days,” she laughed, glancing around at their fellow companions who could hear the star-struck ex-Templar with ease. Alistair had trouble with his indoor voice. Talia took one step closer to him, her chin brushing near his sternum as she whispered, “I missed you too.”

“I want to,” fell out of his foolish lips so fast he moved to smack his forehead.

“You want to…?” Talia bounded on her toes, tucking her hands behind her back as if she feared to touch him. Or feared others watching.

Oh Maker. Alistair’s wild eyes shot to the entire set of them gathered around, listening to his bumbling, probably about to weigh in suggestions and… No. _You’re trying to get out of this._

“I’ve been thinking,” he began before scoffing, “I know, warn the fire brigade. Surely something’s about to spit flames. I mean…after everything we’ve been through, every…” Andraste’s pretty toenails, this shouldn’t be so hard!

Okay, it should be hard in the right places.

“From all of this, what we were tossed into. Having an entire blight thrust upon our heads.” Damn it, why did everything he say sound dirty? “I just wanted to say that I’m so happy that the Maker made _you_ you.”

“That’s, um…” Talia’s lips twisted up in thought before she finished, “sweet?”

“There’s more. Which, maybe I should have written down,” Alistair took one last glance around the group, praying none of them were listening in. Forget the others, forget the chantry, forget whatever foolish fears were chewing through your brain. Say it!

“I want to be with you.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, along with a soft, “Oh,” escaping her beautiful lips.

“In the tent, together. Doing the…tent things one does.” Maker’s breath, were his palms sweating? And he couldn’t stop bouncing his damn leg either. Alistair looked as if he was about to launch into a jig. Stop fidgeting, stop panicking. Stop it now!

When her hand caressed up his arm, Alistair’s body froze, his head swiveling up to meet her gaze. She’d turn him down. She’d have to after that…was it even a question?

“Are you sure?” Talia whispered, her body pressing closer to his.

The scent of the forest was almost palpable on her. Honeysuckle and juniper wafted off her knotted hair, the heat of her taut body that was straining at its full reach upended his vocal cords. Stricken fully numb, all Alistair could do was nod. He did his best to nod decisively though.

Skirting her hand into his, Talia enveloped her fingers around his and began to tug towards his tent. “Then, come on,” she smiled guiding him towards the place he slept every night. It was a good thing too because Alistair’s mind leapt off a cliff and would have taken his body with.

This was it. The thing he’d been mulling over, fretting about, fearing, then aching for for the past three weeks. Maker take him, he’d even tried to get Zevran’s advice. That got as far as the elf narrowing his eyes and saying in that flippant accent, “Are you asking how one goes about wooing someone?”

He swore to never ask anyone anything after that. Which left him at such an abysmal starting place, he was starting to question how pants worked never mind the bits inside of them and the joining there of.

Talia lifted his tent flap, still not a euphemism, and with her warmth holding him guided Alistair inside. As the door dropped behind with a thud, he heard his heartbeat bounding about like a fireball trapped in a chimney. Slowly, Talia reached her delicate fingers up to her hair, plucked a few pins out, and the ebony tumbled to her shoulders.

It was instinct that caused Alistair to reach out and catch it in his fingers. Maker’s breath, it was softer than a kitten’s belly, shinier than onyx. His fingers climbed higher, gently parting her downed hair to the tip before starting anew.

“Ali,” Talia whispered, drawing him to look up, which was when she pounced. Both arms locked around the back of his neck, her sultry lips smashing into his. He almost cried out in an exaggerated pain, when her tongue rolled around his bottom lip and tugged it between hers. Strawberries, a hoppy ale, and serenity floated on her tongue. The drumbeat in his blood surged to war as he tasted what he missed. From behind, he felt her fingers rustling through his hair, electricity charging his scalp and bringing a moan up his throat.

Breathing in deeper, he smelled something new on Talia, a sharp note he couldn’t place. Sweet but also impatient, it grabbed his groggy libido and shook it awake. His fingers fumbled for her breasts, hungry for the perfect scoops that molded to his needy palms. At the brush of a nipple, it was Alistair who moaned, and Talia popped away from their slovenly kisses.

She brushed her forehead against his and whispered, “We can take it slow.”

“I thought we were, what with me taking days to figure out how my co…undercarriage _rattles_.”

Her hand locked tighter to the back of his head, pulling him closer as she smiled, “I meant tonight.” Those sharp eyes that ensnared him from across a battlefield melted as she stared up at him, “We have all the time in Thedas.”

Alistair kissed her, his famished tongue happy to plumb her mouth and lick her lips. They fell into what he knew best, kissing across her beautiful neck, a few pecks to the half moon of skin she displayed above the collar of her armor. His hands found their way to her breasts, Talia moaning whenever he did something she liked. Seemed she was really fond of him cupping underneath, that bringing out such gasps he felt his little soldier swiping against his trousers. It wanted to get in on the action.

Oh Maker, it could.

“May I?” Talia spoke, startling Alistair from licking her collarbone. He had no idea what she wanted to do. Compose a love ballad? Borrow one of his socks? Fart? It wasn’t until his eyes darted to her hands which were placed to the front of her leathers that it kicked in.

She wanted to get naked.

Sweet Andraste did he want her naked. To touch her satiny skin and…

Gulping, Alistair nodded, his eyes filling to the brim as she quickly undid a thousand clasps he’d have panicked and gotten his hair stuck in. He was enthralled, mesmerized into being, until he caught a sliver of naked, tan flesh and instinctively turned away.

Damn it, she wanted you to see. You don’t have to…to… At the sound of her leathers flopping to the ground, Alistair swallowed deep. Okay, he wasn’t ready to watch her undress. Somehow that seemed more erotic than her simply being naked. Not that he’d ever seen her naked and, damn it, brain. Make sense!

His numb fingers bounded into the mess of armor he wore, trying to unhook all the metal bits. As each one clanged to the ground, he held his breath, somehow fearing that Talia might suddenly sober up and rush out the door. When the final landed, leaving him in nothing more than a linen undershirt, he felt her palm trace over his shoulder. It dipped lower, following the curve of the muscles. Goosebumps erupted down his arms from the whisper touch.

He wanted more, wanted to feel it on his bare skin and…

Without a second thought, Alistair yanked his shirt off his head. Slowly, he pivoted in place, growing concerned about what she’d think. _What if she didn’t…?_ Was as far as he got before his brain filled with one thought — her. Naked. Beautiful. The brown on her arms burned from weeks in the sun contrasted to the lighter olive shade of her breasts, bringing them into a tantalizing spotlight. He stared in awe at the soft, inviting curves dangling from her chest. Both nipples of a rosy tan pointed slightly downward, the image replacing whatever Alistair concocted in his fantasies.

His eyes traveled down from the breasts, not that it was easy, towards her stomach. A stark white scar broke up the tans, calling for Alistair’s fingers. That was what he touched first on her shirtless body. Not those tempting breasts, but a scar still healing from their fight. He kept trailing it downward even as his fingers bumped into the waist of her trousers.

“Well?” Talia coughed out, her beautiful brown eyes widening by the dimming light.

“You’re the most beautiful I’ve ever seen,” Alistair whispered in awe.

“Beautiful what?” she laughed, a rosy blush claiming her cheeks. Was she nervous too? Couldn’t possibly be as nervous as him. Alistair feared he might melt into an explosion…because he’d find a way to make that work.

Curling his palm to her burning cheek, her elegant black waves caressing the back of his hand, Alistair whispered, “Beautiful everything.” Never weary lips found each other, the kisses sloppy but neither caring as they tasted each other. Talia’s hand gripped onto his bicep, fingers digging into his muscle. He moved to flex it, to prove that he wasn’t a bag of jelly, when her curious tips trailed down his chest.

With a flitter, she twirled her fingers through his mop of chest hair, finding the more patchy sections fun to scrape her nails over. Alistair gasped at the attention, his leg trembling as it strained behind him. He couldn’t say if it was out of fear of the unknown or excitement of what was to come.

Ha. Come.

“Mmm,” Talia murmured, her wily lips slipping up to his ear. That wandering hand paused just below his belly button, her warm palm falling flush to his stomach. “You’re shaking.”

“I,” Alistair flinched, his head swiveling back to take stock of the cursed leg that wouldn’t cease. “I must be cold. Very cold. Shivering.”

“I see,” she nodded, her tongue making another lap of her lips. Alistair took that as an invitation and moved closer for a kiss, when her fingers slid off his bare skin and down to the proud tent pole trapped in his trousers. Sweet merciful Maker, he wanted to cry out in joy. To push his hips forward so she’d wrap more of her delicate fingers around him. Didn’t matter that there were knickers in the way, this felt…

“Let me help you warm up,” Talia purred, her fingers quickly undoing the mess of buttons he had for a fly. Two were notorious for sticking, sometimes requiring Alistair to yank the whole thing down to take a piss. Hilarity often ensued. He should warn her, help her, but he was frozen in place. All he could do was stretch his torso higher, hoping to give her all the room she could to…to…

Cool air stung his backside first, proving to Alistair that she’d gotten his pants off. He clenched those appley cheeks tight, eyes locked up, as he waited for her warm hand to cup his twig and berries. No, branch. Oak tree, really, and…something large that was also round.

When her hand landed on his shoulder, Alistair gulped in shock, nearly tumbling back on his ass. The move drew him to open his eyes into hers, Talia pursing her lips in thought, “You’re all tensed up.”

He forced out a laugh, the smile trying to assure her he was fine. The fact his leg was still shaking didn’t really give him much backup. Come on, body, get it together. _You want this, right?_

A quick glance down to his ol’ third handshake told him that yes, and it was getting rather impatient and veiny about the delay.

“Here,” Talia gripped onto his chest and slowly spun him about as if he were on wheels. When he faced away from her, his view no longer a beautiful naked woman but the tent flap, Alistair tumbled to his butt. A cramp tried to wiggle through his legs but after the shit they kept pulling he wouldn’t hear of it.

Forlorn and uncertain, Alistair tugged the last of his trousers off. The pants skittered over the mess in his tent, which he just realized he should have picked up before asking Talia to join him. Maybe put out a candle…though the likelihood of him setting his pubic hair on fire would have gone up exponentially.

As if it was all going swimmingly now. He’d made a fool of himself a hundred times over, babbled incoherently when she got naked, and hadn’t even touched her goodies yet. Slumping forward, Alistair let his legs fall into a cross. He was about to engage in full on pout mode, when warm hands soothed over his shoulders.

“You need to relax,” her alto voice hummed in his ear. Thumbs dug into the knots popping up along his shoulders, causing Alistair to moan as she tried to work the stress free. It’d take a week and a battalion of qunari walking on his back, but he was grateful she was trying.

Talia’s massage slipped lower, cupping along the higher back muscles. Taking in a deep breath, Alistair tried to obey her suggestion, when she grazed her teeth against his earlobe. Her hand slid forward, cupping his pec.

Hot breath burst into his ear, “You’ll live longer.” Sliding up, her fingers bumped against his little dot of a nipple. A fire sparked along Alistair’s spine, his body folding tighter to hers. Talia caught on quickly, her voice sensuous, “Do you like that?”

“More than I’d have…” Alistair gulped. “Here I assumed mine were only ornamental pulled out for really fancy parties or when greeting the Divine.”

The giggle behind him didn’t stall the flames churning in his veins, but it did bring a smile to his lips. She was still Talia, even while having sex. Why did he think she’d be someone else?

Legs enveloped outside of Alistair’s, naked legs. She must have removed her knickers when he was panicking. Which meant that…? Yup. He could feel a soft prickle of hair bounding into his tailbone. Hair that was hiding away her, um, secluded grotto? The thought of a woman’s muff bouncing against him nearly brought a moan to Alistair’s overworked throat, when Talia’s right hand slid up to dig into his thigh.

“How do you feel about…?” she danced her finger tips like waltzers skipping up his leg, down the inner thigh, and then… “This?”

Bare skin, warm as a summer day and softer than silk curled around his dick. She started at the base, guiding his little friend further out for attention, while Alistair’s vision exploded. “Th-th-that’s…” He tried to assure her how wonderful it felt, perhaps with hand embossed stationery, when her pulsing grip slipped up to the head.

“Hm,” she whispered, her palm swooping over the knob in thought, “I’ve never been with anyone intact before.”

“Oh?” Alistair sputtered, trying to find anything he could cling to. His mouth was drying out fast, his toes clenching in the dirt, and all she did was give him a little tug. How was he supposed to go for… Maker, he didn’t even know how long one was meant to last.

“Elves tend to…never mind.” Despite her lack of one-on-one time with the foreskin prior, she picked it up quick. Closing her fist tight above him, as she drew it down over his dick she’d open just enough to provide the perfect fit. As if his crown was made for her palm.

Talia scooted closer, her hand increasing in speed and sending Alistair careening for the cliff. Her own breath broke into a spattering pant, allowing him to feel her stiff nipples bounding against his back. The thought made him even stiffer, causing all sense to flee his brain. Sparks flickered across his vision, his thighs clenching tighter and tighter as he tried to hang on.

In his own hands, he’d have popped off and rolled over to sleep by now. In hers, he didn’t want it to end. To have her determination, her passion, her compassion jacking him off was…it was…

Alistair spun so fast in place, he nearly bashed his jaw into her teeth. Talia reared back, her rogue instincts protecting her lip from being smacked, but she stared up at him in confusion. “I…I want to do that to you. The massage and stuff part.”

She smiled and nodded, “Okay.” Rolling her mass of hair into one long twist and piling it over her shoulder, Talia turned away from the blubbering man. Without her watching, he tried to tamp down the explosion that was a mere centimeter from hitting the gaatlock barrel. It took quite a bit of squeezing to redirect the blood and even then, he hadn’t seen his dick that excited to be in this world since he was fifteen.

Think unsexy thoughts.

Alistair repeated the mantra to himself as he brushed his fingers over a beautiful woman’s hair and prepared to massage her naked back. Yup. So unsexy there. Nothing to get excited about whatso—

A moan erupted from Talia when he dug into the first knot. At the second, she threw her head back until it bounded against his chest. He’d remained on his knees, uncertain if folding around her would help anything with his problem. Staring down at her glistening skin, her hooded eyes closed in rapture, succulent lips parted in ecstasy, and both her nipples ready for action, Alistair lost every stupid concern in his head.

He dipped to her, his mouth pressing a kiss upside down to her fluttering lips. As she pulsed her top lip against his bit of a soul patch, their tongues glancing against one another, he drew his hands forward and cupped her breasts. Maker, this was the softest thing in Thedas. Each gentle knead of his pads brought a silly giggle to him. He was touching her breasts, her naked breasts. And they were more amazing than anything he could have dreamed of.

Talia grazed a hand through his scruff, tugging him deeper into the kiss, when he felt her other palm brush against the back of his hand. He was about to pull away from her breast, but she guided him from the curve of giving flesh to the nipple.

“Like this,” she instructed, teaching him how to thrum his fingers over them. Nodding to try and show he understood, Alistair followed her movement, the budded nipple bending as he lightly tapped into it. A hum reverberated up Talia’s throat, her tongue stilling from their kisses.

Hungry to hear more satisfying sounds, Alistair threaded his fingers around both nipples. Each light knock from his thick hands caused her to sway. A thought struck him, and curious what she’d think, Alistair cuffed his first and middle finger between her nipple and rotated them in a circle.

“Oh Maker,” Talia gasped.

“Bad?”he sputtered, prepared to scamper off of her.

“No. Good. So damn good. Don’t you stop.”

Pleased with himself, Alistair went full in, his lips pressing kisses to her throat that was warbling with gulps and gasps. His fingers were the nimblest they’d ever been, drawing her taut nips out then sliding back to curl around all of her breasts.

Talia’s hand rustled through his hair, her head thrust back as she mumbled, “Sweet blood of the Maker,” before chewing on her lip. She kept rising on her haunches, swaying herself back and forth as if…

Like the siren song it was, Alistair’s eyes broke from the moaning woman’s ecstatic smile straight down those bounding hills to her mysterious cavern of wonders. A black forest guarded the entrance, obscuring his view, but he needed to know more. His fingers — rapscallions that they were — smoothed down Talia’s stomach. They curved with the little pooch from her sit, dipped into her bellybutton which caused her to laugh, and landed right on the edge of the ebony fluff.

The certainty in his veins evaporated, leaving Alistair circling through the top of her pubic hair like a knight riding before the castle gates. Oh, he wanted in there, beyond measure, but he wasn’t certain he knew the trick to slipping inside. Was there a password? If so, it was probably swordfish.

Her squirming ceased as Talia realized he wasn’t thrumming her breasts to a slow dance. Reaching across her hips, she enveloped her small hand above his. At first, she cupped it in her palm, Alistair concerned she’d pull him away because he picked the wrong move, when Talia slid her thighs open wider.

Guiding his hand as if she was trying to summon a spirit, Alistair gulped at the soft curlies caressing his fingers. Only two tips were on point, the most experienced and daring who stood above the precipice to the abyss. What was down through that darkness? Who knew? Gold? Dragons? A gold dragon?

Alistair was about to suggest such a thing, but Talia cut him off. Curling her thumb and pinkie around his palm, she drew the tip of his finger against the reason for being. Warm folds invited him in for a cuppa, maybe a little looksee. Giddy, Alistair skirted his fingers around the tender skin, his chest bounding into Talia’s back as she squirmed in place.

While the warmth and satiny touch drew him in, it was when she dipped his finger deep into herself that Alistair lost control. Wet heat tugged him further and further inside, his tips bounding into each cushioned pocket which caused Talia to groan. This was it. The big secret girls kept hidden between their legs.

Maker, no wonder. It was exhilarating, not only watching her slip further into the throes of pleasure but to feel it clenching back against him. She was both thrusting his fingers deeper in while her whole _wet frock_ was trying to drag him in too. And that could be his cock in there.

Andraste’s blood. He buried his face into her shoulder, trying to shake off the thought, but the anticipation wouldn’t leave him. Nor did the glean of sweat rising off of Talia’s sculpted shoulder help distract him. Mouthing all the blasphemes he could think of against her perfumed skin, Alistair tried to ground himself. But in doing that, his teeth scraped and nibbled up her shoulder and down her back.

That sent off Talia’s moaning, her breath so hitched it wasn’t breaking wild without a hacksaw. She left Alistair in charge of thrumming her inner workings, but wrapped her slick fingers around his thumb. Uncertain where she wanted it, he waited until Talia plopped it upon a secret pea hidden within.

Absently, Alistair swiped his smooth thumb against it, not expecting much from such a tiny node. It nearly sent him tumbling on his ass when Talia threw her entire head back and cried incoherently. Okay, that was a good button to remember. Very important. Touch that little pea. He tried to find a rhythm, swishing his thumb back and forth over the node that he’d swear was getting bigger.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she panted, trying to swallow in order to get a word out. “Like that. Please, dear Maker, like that!”

With all that envious dexterity in her body, she rose up on her haunches and began to thrust herself onto Alistair’s fingers. It was beautiful to watch, her naked skin flushed with exertion, her breasts bounding from the force. By the void, he wanted it to last forever. He just made one minor miscalculation.

Somehow, between Talia’s throes of passion and Alistair having to shift around to keep his fingers in place, that sneaky ol’ trouser snake found its way right against her bountiful backside. And with every thrust of her body onto him, she was riling it up more.

Think about darkspawn. That rotten meat smell on their breath. A rancid heat that’d wipe over his face along with a pile of slobber. Warmth. Slicked up heat. Not helping!

Hats. The chantry. A withered old Mother glaring down at his penis and clucking.

“Fuck, Maker, yes!” Talia shouted, ripping away whatever delusion of control Alistair had. He was thrown back into the truth — a gorgeous naked woman was riding him, pleasure seeping from every pore on her perfect skin as she cried out for him.

There was no stopping it now.

Hips swinging forward twice, his engorged and enraged cock slicked against her warm back. It was Talia that thrust down, catching the crown perfectly and setting off the cascade inside him. It burned hotter than the sun, erupting from his loins out to his toes and up his chest. By the time it reached his brain, leaving him crying incoherently, Alistair glanced down at the sticky mess building up on her back.

Oh Maker. He grimaced, trying to catch the rest in his hand to stymie both the embarrassment and his cum. It seemed nothing could stop either, his entire chest bright red while he had to blow one of the greatest loads of his life onto her spine.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair mumbled, “I’m sorry, I’m…” He couldn’t think of an excuse, so he just kept repeating it over and over. Beyond ashamed, his eyes found the floor and locked in place.

The heaving breaths slowed from Talia and she turned in place. No doubt one hand was trying to wipe away his mess, while she weighed her options. He did warn her before. Sort of. Why did it have to be her he tried with first? Why wasn’t he already experienced so…?

“Hey,” warm palms slid up his scruff, trying to lift Alistair’s heavy head. His neck gave in to her attempt, but his eyes remained downcast. Talia pulled him closer, his forehead not just brushing but nearly beaning against hers. From the edge of his eyes, he caught her lips now cherry red and still whiffling to catch a breath.

She swallowed once more, seeming to have trouble, when she brushed both of her thumbs up under his cheekbones. “Ali,” she whispered.

“Sorry for, uh, cutting the festivities short,” he gulped, his toes curling inward.

“I told you,” her voice breathed against his reddened cheeks. Hooking her fingers under his jawline, she finally lifted him up so high he met her eyes. A twinkle sparkled inside those bottomless depths. Leaning closer, she whispered, “we have all night.”

“Really?” Alistair gasped, trying to search her face for a lie.

A smirk rose on those lips he could kiss a million times. Talia straddled up higher on her haunches and snagged her hands around Alistair’s chest. Before he could even move to return the hug, she suddenly dug her knee into the ground. With all the force in her lithe body, she spun the two of them around. Her back landed on the ground while he, and his still dripping cock, ended up above her.

Twisting her head up, the smile not dimming for a moment, Talia parted her fingers down his chest, “Have I ever told you that I prefer seconds?” She drew her foot higher, the toes almost tickling his inner thigh. With a little fanfare flicker, she nudged into his balls, sending Alistair gasping. It may not take her that long to wait.

Maker, she was beautiful and writhing under him, caressing him, begging for him. Balancing on one hand, he cupped her breast and started to wind his fingers down her gleaming skin. There was no hesitation as he reached her forest of intrigue. After dipping his finger into her pulsing gap, Talia greedily opened her legs wider.

“Have I ever told you that I really love…” Alistair circled around those juicy lips once more before pausing at the top. “Peas,” he laughed.

Talia’s face pinched up in confusion, but not for long as he began to thrum against her magical pea. She arched her back higher into the air, begging for him to thrust his fingers inside of her. Happy to oblige, Alistair did as ordered, free to delight in the pleasure wracking her body. One of her legs lifted higher until it wrapped around his waist, Talia trying to grind against him. She didn’t care that his cock took a little nap after its first show, and neither did he. No, Alistair was far too enthralled with testing every twist and turn of his fingers, every touch to her glistening skin, every pant and gasp from the woman he loved, to even notice.

“Ah-h-h,” her mouth parted, tongue dropping low as the breaths pinged out like crossbow bolts. Alistair watched as her eyes seemed to roll into the back of her skull, her head twisting under her as she heaved her lower half higher. A tremor ran up her body, Talia’s limbs locking in tight as she moaned.

Oh Maker, he didn’t kill her, did he?

Worried, he froze in his finger ballet only to feel Talia pulsing against him. “What…?” Alistair gulped, partially praying that she’d move or say something. Blessed Andraste, how could he explain that injury to Wynne? “What was that?” he mumbled out, wincing at what was probably the obvious.

“Hm?” Talia seemed lost, a limp hand brushing over her sweat-soaked hair. A frill of ebony clung to her forehead as she staggered back on her elbows to stare up at him. Blinking slowly, her tongue rolling through her mouth, she smiled wide. “That was my turn.”

“Your turn?” Alistair scowled, trying to remember if there were any rules to this game. He glared at his arm, the wrist in particular mentioning how it was tired of supporting his weight, when he caught Talia’s wicked grin. “Oh! You’re…” he coughed out, chuckling to himself.

“I didn’t know that girls, I mean that that was how it went for…them. You?”

Her warm snicker wiped away his clinging concern as she guided her hands up his slick back and pulled him on top of her. “It is,” Talia lavished him in kisses while her nails scratched along his spine, “for me.”

“Excellent to know. Adding it to the…” Alistair began, when she once again hooked both her arms and legs around his torso in order to flip him over. He helped a bit better this time, sliding onto his back while the beautiful and satisfied woman stood on her knees above him. With graceful moves, she drew both her hands back over her forehead through her hair, trying to knot it out of the way.

While he could happily watch her do the most mundane of tasks, it was the bouncing breasts that beckoned to the man trapped between her thighs. Both hands, ecstatic to be free, enveloped hers accruements. Still just as firm and cushiony as he remembered all of whenever this started. Five hours ago? Alistair pushed both breasts up higher, causing Talia to tip her head back in a laugh.

As she turned back to him, her palms kneading against his chest, she asked, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, as if it wasn’t obvious.

She slid further down his body until a charge bounded through his veins. A sly smile reverberated over Talia’s smile as she purred, “Feels like someone’s ready for the main event.”

“I…” Alistair swallowed, trying to keep his soul jammed inside his body. At the moment it was highly focused on his whole fruitful loin area, every sway of her boundless backside shaking him to the core.

This was it. Cast off the last illusions of purity and dive right in. He’d been afraid that she’d laugh at him. Foolish, she only laughed with him. That he’d fumble and hurt her, but Talia writhed around in such pleasure from his touch he couldn’t contain himself. One more hurdle to get to the fabled finish line.

Licking his scorched lips, Alistair smiled while his eyes burned into hers, “More than anything.”

Talia bent down, her hair falling in curtains around their faces as she kissed him. Alistair raised his chin to try and kiss her back, but she was already on the move. Those wily fingers circled around his cock, Alistair bracing himself for more of before, but when she slid lower and opened her legs, his vision blanked.

Toes digging into the mottled dirt, as Talia flanked his sword at every turn, he happily thrusted deeper into her trap. Maker, what a trap it was. Warm, soft, sweet, it beckoned his cock home, enveloping him into its embrace. He could lay there forever, staring into his love’s eyes as she accepted him in a way no one ever had.

“Are you chanting?” Talia laughed, her chin pivoted quizzically.

Alistair clacked his jaws and tried to replay back what his tongue had been up to. “Was I?” he admitted.

“Sounded like, ‘Yes, please, yes, now,’” she was relentless, her fingers pawing at his chest hair and then nibbling around his nipples.

“Big moment,” Alistair gulped, “want to remember it forever.”

Her hot tongue lapped around her lips, those beguiling eyes shifting to the ceiling. “The best part’s yet to…” Talia raised up on her thighs, Alistair feeling himself sucker out of her. With a chuckle, she plunged him back in, her words finishing with, “come.”

 _Sweet blood of Andraste!_ He thought her hand was a miracle, this was…he had no comparison. Alistair’s fingers flexed against her breasts, his body slipping further from his control. “What do I do?” he gasped, his heels flailing in the dirt while Talia began to moan.

“Whatever feels good,” was her answer.

Whatever felt good? It all did. From the tips of his rusty hair down to his chipped toenails, his body was an inferno and she fed the flames. What felt good, what he wanted was…

His hands fell from her breasts to grip onto her flush hips. With a groan, Alistair thrust himself deeper in while pulling Talia lower. “Maker’s balls!” one of them groaned, maybe both. He couldn’t tell as her panting sped up along with his thrusting.

One more. One more. Just one more second!

His danglers all but slammed up into his crotch, kicking off a chain reaction that sent Alistair flopping to the ground. When his ass hit, he somehow thrust himself further into Talia, inviting her to give his crown one good squeeze. Every hair on his body rose, the pleasure overload screaming up to his brain. It knocked about, bringing both a gasp of a shock and a chuckle from his lips.

Exhausted more than he’d ever been in his life, Alistair flopped back like a jellyfish. It seemed fitting, that orgasm melted his bones. He was certain. No way he survived that one intact. Something had to pay for that kind of body ransacking pleasure. Worth it, though.

Talia slid off of him, the last few dribbles of his goo plopping onto his stomach. It didn’t matter. He certainly wasn’t going to leap up and clean it off. For starters, he was without bones. Also, there was a beautiful, perfect, body-breaking woman sliding in beside him. She curled up on her side, and by a true miracle of the Maker, Alistair was able to cup her hip.

As he heaved himself up onto his side to stare into her gorgeous eyes, Talia leaned forward and pecked a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Well? Was it worth the wait?”

Maker’s sake. Alistair chuckled at how he’d been such a fool before. To put it off so long in the hopes that… He sobered up, one hand drawing over her downed hair so he could stare at her face before clasping to her back to pull her flush, heart to heart. It had to be her. It couldn’t have been anyone else. No one would have taken her time, guided him, given him the resolve to see it through to the end.

“It was beyond anything I could have dreamed. Which I mean in a good way, not a ‘Ah everyone’s belching fire and has eight eyes now’ type of dream.”

Her sweet laugh enveloped him. Like a protection spell, Alistair knew as long as he had that at his side nothing could hurt him. Talia’s eyes drifted around his face, her warm, spent body cuddling tighter to him.

From the depths of their conjoined limbs, her fingers rose to cup his chin as she whispered, “Maybe it’s too soon, but…I love you.”

“Have I not mentioned it before?” Alistair laughed, “Because I love you, adore you, would worship you if the chantry allowed it and I had any sculpting skills. An epic statue of you right over there would really liven the campsite up.”

“To think, if not for the blight,” she circled her fingers down his chest, fluffing the hair caught between his folded pecs, “we never would have met. If I hadn’t left with that strange human I’d… Who knows where I’d be.”

Alistair huddled her tighter to his chest, needing to feel her warm, alive breath on his skin. There was so much riding on their success, and the likelihood of either of them surviving — never mind both — seemed impossible. Still… She was there, at the right time, in the right place, picking him up, saving him from his own despair. Guiding him. If not for her, what would he be?

Brushing his nose against the top of her hair, breathing in her woodsy scent, Alistair swore to both Talia and the Maker, “It had to be you.”


	36. Falling in Love, Cullen x Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to celebrate the start of fall with some Cullen and Inquisitor sexy times. Told in a rare for me first person POV, the Inquisitor and Cullen take a small holiday to a cabin out in the woods. When he comes in from a long day tending to the woods, he sweeps his love into his arms and carts her off to bed.

Motes of dust struck the golden light streaking through autumnal leaves. I watched each one’s sparkling fall as they came to rest upon the log pile beside the door. My focus should have been upon the book in my fingers, my body stretched across a divan to get into the perfect reading position. A cup of cinnamon tea cooled behind my head, masked by the leather throw pillow. While the creeping chill of oncoming winter circled the floorboards of the cabin, I ignored it. The cashmere sweater snuggling against my skin and piling at my wrists was certainly helping.

Licking my thumb, I moved to turn the page before realizing I once again failed to read it. Maker take me, but this cursed tome was dense. Squaring my shoulders, I prepared to dive in deep when the heavenly scent of the forest wafted on the breeze. An earthy but sweet musk, it sang of summer’s overgrowth entering its next stage of slumber. Ripping through the senescence of the rust-colored sky came the piquant acrid smoke of leaves burning to ash.

He’d been at it most of the morning, dressed in his thick cotton shirt to stave off the early dew. I gulped at the thought of Cullen having to break open the buttons in the autumn sun to reveal his white undershirt clinging to the hard-wrought sweat drenching his muscles. No doubt some would scoff at the Commander of the Inquisition breaking his back to try and tame the excess foliage, but Cullen seemed content.

At least until a crow flitted into the trees and seemed determined to harass him. I could hear the caws breaking from outside, and on occasion, Cullen shouting at the ‘Blighted thing’ to ‘shove off.’ Stretching my legs, the hem of the oversized sweater rose to display my lower thigh. Scandalous for the Inquisitor, but she was left behind at Skyhold. Hung up on the rack along with the armor bearing the eye. Here, it was simply me, a golden cabin creaking with fall’s perfect winds, and a man.

Also, a damn book I needed to finish. Digging deeper into the throng of gerunds and participles, I barely looked up at the whine of the screen door. It slammed back into place, trying to distract me, but nothing would. I was determined in my course. I would see this…

“What are you reading?”

Sigh. I wanted to be cross, but — slipping a finger between the pages — I glanced up and couldn’t be. His bullheaded yard work turned the golden lion of Skyhold dewey, the man nearly glistening head to toe. His sandy hair was adrift and mussed to one side, leaving my fingers aching to wrestle it back in place. The scruff that delighted damn near every woman who saw him was nearing a beard. While some would probably laugh at it, Cullen’s lighter hair leaning towards the splotchy look, I found myself enthralled with the barbaric feel of the fur scratching against my skin.

Here, in the woods, there was no political grandstanding, no ruffs, no corsets. Just a man, a woman, and no one around for miles to hear what that combination could get up to.

Cullen drew the back of his hand over his forehead, trying to wipe away the soot built up from the cremated leaves. It sort of worked, smearing off his face at least, and I had a better concept of what he’d look like as a brunette. Not my ideal. Those amber eyes that flickered through my mind like a candle in the dark honed in. He really wanted an answer.

“A book,” I said, causing him to pout. I shouldn’t pick but watching that chewable bottom lip jut free drew out the worst in me. “One on Tevinter History. I thought I’d catch up before the big meeting.”

A thud broke through the easy air, a reminder that this was ephemeral and real life waited beyond the cloyingly quaint meadow lane. But Cullen drew past that, his body sidling closer to inspect the title. While he perused the cover, I inhaled his woodsy aroma. The man’s natural musk amplified as he put his body to work, bringing a rush to my slumbering blood. Layered overtop the raw, magnetic scent was one of juniper and the forest after a hard rain. I wanted to dig my nose into his neck and take a deep whiff, but he pulled back to look up into my eyes.

“I read this one.”

My lips were pursing for his, when his words struck me. Blinking madly, I glanced down at the gobbledegook of words and sputtered, “You did?”

“Yep. Back in…” His thoughts trailed off as he stared down at my legs trying to dig under a knitted blanket. “Are you not wearing any trousers?”

I shrugged, unable to hide the fact.

Cullen groaned, “You’re going to get sick. You can’t… It’s cold in here. That fire is…” His half-finished sentences snapped away as he glanced to the hearth I’d sort of failed to tend to, now nothing but ash. “Merciful Maker, you cannot get ill.”

“I’m fine,” I tried to insist, burrowing my legs under the blanket so he wouldn’t catch the goosepimples. But no, that damn lion saw all. His eyes were more of an eagle’s.

“Get up,” he insisted as if I was a stubborn child, or one of his soldiers.

Crossing my arms and burrowing them into the sweater, I glared at him, “No. I’m comfortable here.”

“You need pants! And socks.” His massive paws wrapped around one of my feet causing Cullen to gasp, “They’re icicles.”

“I’m content here, burrowed under a blanket.” I rolled my eyes, assuming that would be the end of it, but my personal worry-wart launched his unbendable arms out. Without a by-your-leave, he scooped me up off the couch.

“What are you doing?” I shrieked even as the man heaved me through the air and placed me up on his shoulder like a bag of feed.

“Getting you properly dressed. Last thing I need is Josephine hollering at me for letting the Inquisitor draw ill,” he huffed, not because I was a heavy burden but in his dead-set pout.

My stomach pinched to the powerful shoulder I was hoisted upon. I could feel my cold toes dangling against Cullen’s abs as he turned on his heel and marched me towards the bedroom. This whole thing was preposterous. I wanted to say as such, when his hand landed upon my ass. The wide spread of fingers and palm easily cupped both cheeks, while the other palm worried up and down my frosty calves. He was enjoying this, and to be perfectly frank, it was nice to be carried around with a free view of his backside.

Still. I cracked open the book, trying to focus on the words and not the flexing butt-cheeks of the man carting me about. “This is foolish,” I chastised, when Cullen gripped onto the ladder to the cabin’s loft and began to climb. My body bounded about like a rock in a saddlebag, but he kept a tight grip to protect me. And the damn fool kept on climbing the ladder with me in his arms.

Nibbling on my lip, I let my sight glance towards the bicep straining to hold me in place. How the muscle bulged below the skin, begging for me to wring my fingers over so much power. But I couldn’t reach, and startling him seemed unwise lest we wind up having to explain the Inquisitor with a broken spine.

Arriving in the loft, Cullen paused to take in a breath. It was a charming getaway, the ceiling A-framed so the roof met in a point above us. Soft, oak-colored wood polished to a shine filled both the floor and walls. A single window allowed the hazy autumn light to glance upon the bed. Gnarled trees stood in for the posts, each guarding a great mattress garnished with a multi-colored quilt. Plush, with enough space to fit three people, the only downside to the bed was it tended to squeak. Not that that was much of a problem with the nearest person a good twenty miles and counting.

I smirked, waiting for him to put me down on my feet, when the air upended itself. Cullen heaved me off his shoulder with a shrug, sending my well-coddled ass diving to the bed. The entire structure shuddered from the addition, my bare knees nearly banging into my chest at how deep I sank. I whipped my head up from the surprise, but he was already wandering off to the chest of drawers to find suitable attire for the vacationing Inquisitor.

With a grump at such indignity, I spun onto my stomach and cracked open the book. Beyond the rich history of Archons I heard Cullen rustling about in a festoon of stockings he couldn’t wrap his mind around. “What about these?”

He must have offered up a selection, but I was too enthralled with the Treatise of Archon Someone-or-other in the Blessed Age. My bare leg lifted through the air, foot pointed to a tip to emphasize the calf dangling near the man’s eyesight as I deliberately turned a page.

“Are you going to lay there, barely dressed, reading that book?”

The familiar exasperation caused me to twist on my side, though I didn’t dare clasp the pages shut. I eyed up the bull of a man who found brute force to be the answer nine times out of ten. Drawing my thumb to my lip, I graced it against the thin skin, eyes boring into his. As it pressed against my bottom lip, dragging the tempting treat out, the tip of my tongue lapped against it. With a smirk, I turned the page and rolled back onto my stomach.

“Blessed Andraste,” he groaned, forgetting the leggings and collapsing onto the bed beside me. The mattress collapsed so my legs buckled to his hip. Cullen — even while exasperated with me — began to rub his calloused palm over them.

Maker, it felt divine, his fingers moving of their own accord to wrench all the stress off of my legs. As they abandoned their work to slide first over the back of my knee and skirt under the hem of the sweater, my thighs spread. But all he offered was a thrum of his fingertips rolling a beat over my lower thigh. There was better above, already. Grab it!

“Why are you so void-sent on getting me dressed? I’d have thought you’d prefer the other state.”

Spiced breath, warm as an afternoon sunbeam, caressed the back of my ear. “Believe me, there is nothing I fantasize about more.” That soothing hand rose higher, stubby nails glancing in a hypnotic rhythm over my flushed flesh. When he reached the crease of my thigh, I clenched my toes, hoping and praying for him to delve deep.

The fool rose away, leaving me spinning in place at the loss. As Cullen’s wandering palm settled in his lap, he said, “But I know you. You’ll spend the entire day freezing while pages deep into a book. Come tomorrow it’ll be sniffles, and in three days time a full on flu.”

I grimaced at his assessment, even if it was accurate. Twisting on my hip, I moved to finagle my cold legs around him, but Cullen caught a foot and once again cupped it in his hands. This time, he blew upon the icicle toes, manically rubbing his palms over it to bring forth heat.

“I’ll have you know,” I was losing the high ground in this fight, the warming grip rising to my ankles, “that this is a very fascinating book.”

“Oh?” He quirked up an eyebrow and that scar upon his lip rose as well. Most didn’t catch on that despite all of the Commander’s terrifying snarls and growls, when that scar rose it meant he was in a sardonic mood. It allowed him to get away with damn near murder around the Orlesian Court, many finding the Ferelden as adorable as a mabari pup.

Collapsing the book into my palm, I told him, “A rich, vibrant tapestry of the Archons and how they led to the current Imperium.”

His eagle eyes drifted from my palm trying to slam the book back and forth as if that’d shake out its secrets, up to my steel gaze. Rolling his tongue over his lips, Cullen said, “You know it ends with…”

I lashed forward, my palm slapping over his gossipy mouth. Hot breath danced through my lifelines, the delectable lips nibbling on the tender flesh but I wouldn’t be charmed. “No spoilers!” I cried. “If I know how it ends I won’t get through another page.”

Amber flames burned at me, his nose prodding just above my finger. The devastating glare winnowing off his whiskey eyes was enough to cause any woman to quiver in her knickers. I may be the Inquisitor, vanquisher of Corypheus, but even I’m not immune to his power. My palm plummeted from his cheeks, his lips glistening from his hot breath dewing upon them.

Cullen lapped up the moisture, those eyes that pinned me in place abetting so I could take in a breath. Just as I was reaching for the book to begin again, he said, “Archon Nomaran was the first magi…”

“Damn you!” I shouted, fingers lashing forward to try and stopper any more secrets he spat out. But that wily Commander snagged my hand and entrapped it in his. A mischievous glow brandished deep in his eyes as he focused on me.

That cursed mouth opened, about to render futile any hope I had of forcing myself through the book’s quagmire. Thinking fast, I dove forward, my lips silencing his. Maker’s breath, he tasted of meandering walks under an autumn canopy. Of leaping into leaf piles with wild abandon. Of bubbling apple pie smothered in whipped cream. A moan reverberated up my throat, rolling my lascivious tongue to straddle his ravenous lips.

Cullen allowed me passage, my tongue lapping up not only the nutty flavor of his mouth but the heat. Robust fingers dug into my shoulder blades, bunching the ivory sweater as he pressed me to him. My personal bodyguard, protector from all manner of threat, nipped his teeth against my lip. I gasped, wiggling up off my bent knees in shock, and those hands swooped right in to cup my ass. He did it on purpose!

“Do,” I sputtered, my panting breasts bunching against his own heaving chest, “do you still want me to put on pants?”

Burning amber swung to me, shadows lengthening his chiseled face. Cullen walked one knee forward, his palms digging into my scoops of derriere. I scuttled back with him, uncertainty rising as the man who plucked me off the couch graced his nose beside mine. A growl of a dragon defending its horde rose from his gullet as he said, “No.”

I worked lighting quick, struggling to rip the button-up shirt off his tantalizing shoulders. Cullen’s lips smothered mine, his palms sliding up to pad against the small of my back. The cable-knit wool of the sweater kept me from savoring the thrill of his skin upon mine. No doubt he’d wrench it off me soon enough. I had bigger concerns.

The ravenous Commander kept walking me backwards, my body teetering as I clung white-knuckled to the ends of his shirt to keep from falling. He swept a solitary hand nearly fully across my back, keeping me pinned upright, even as his kisses grew fervid. Teeth scraped over my chin and down the jaw, my neck extending in a cry for attention. He was happy to deliver, my body hanging upon a precipice at his full mercy. Granted, the fall was a foot at most to a feather mattress, but the thrill was undeniable.

A swathe of beard hairs scratched down my throat, heralding the triumphant arrival of lips to soothe away the burn. I squirmed at each balmy kiss, a pleading whine dribbling from my lips. “Tell me…” Cullen breathed, punctuating each break with a kiss, “you want it.”

I gnawed on my lip, squirming at the ache between my thighs. A sleeping dragon was awake and in need of proper attention.

He switched to the other side, his lips now proceeding the rash of beard. Maker’s sake, how was that making me wetter? “Tell me…” The edge of his incisors scraped my jaw, bringing a wanton pant to my tongue. Those inscrutable, sometimes cross eyes flared into mine, Cullen waiting for me to fall into his abyss as he whispered, “Tell me you need it.”

“For the love of the void!” I wrapped both hands to his shoulders and yanked him down on top of me. We both tumbled to the bed, his forehead nearly careening into mine. I crushed his palm to my back, trapping it, but was incapable of caring as my body lit up. Writhing against him, I hooked my leg around his waist and gurgled at the glance of his bulge against the wet spot in my knickers.

Cullen tipped his head back at the move, exposing the struggling Adam’s apple. Never one to turn down a treat, I lapped my tongue around that masculine accouterment, the tip of my nose brushing through his scraggly beard. As he gulped down his excitement, well aware he just showed his hand, I tugged his forehead to mine. His eyelashes rested upon his cheeks, the man listening to the thrum of his body rocking against mine.

“I often want it,” I whispered, my free hand canvassing down the skin-tight shirt clinging to his mountainous terrain. “And…” I paused, raising my head off the mattress to breathe in his ear. As my hand cinched around his cock, I said, “I always need it.”

Lips plunged to mine, Cullen alternating between kissing the life out of me while also struggling to rip his button-up off. When the cuff snagged on the wrist, exposing his knot of shoulder muscle, I pulled his shoulder down to my lips. Three sweet kisses ended in a bite, Cullen squirming as a prayer dribbled from his tongue. Rising away, his face flushed to a rosy hue, he glanced over to find I’d undone the cuff button for him.

A chuckle broke from his throat as he finally made off with the button-up. I worked off the undershirt, palms soothing up his abs, nails skirting down his back. It was slow, laborious work to take a measure of his chest but I felt up to the task.

All the while, he kept pressing words to my lips. “Please.” “Yes.” “Be with me.” “Trust Me.” Each I answered with a kiss, my voice melted into my chest. When I wrenched the tight undershirt free, Cullen rose up allowing me free rein of his delectable body. Certainly, it could have been so he could unhitch his belt, but I knew where a delectable show was to be found.

He wore his strength the way an Orlesian would a ruffle; delineated pecs, abs, biceps, and more flexing in pride as he bobbed on his knees. A fine line of hair speckled out in a t-shape from his pink nipples down towards the pinkie-sized belly button. Staggering up to my elbows, I hooked my hands against the small of his back. Cullen paused in tugging off his pants, allowing my lips the freedom to ruffle up the start of his enchanting treasure trail.

With great strain, he lowered his trousers to match my probing tongue. I flicked the fluffy hairs back and forth, the tip of my nose bouncing into his belly button. My lips smacked a kiss, drawing further and further towards the real excitement. It was trembling within its knicker snare, trying to tap its way to freedom. Poor thing, it simply needed a helping hand.

Flattening my fingers to the sinewy hip, I slid them between skin and trousers, quickly filling my grip with that famished cock. “Blighted Maker,” Cullen gasped from the tug of my palm slicking his skin up against the proud core. I gave another one, watching the flesh pile up under the crown, before flicking my thumb against the pleasureful passage.

He babbled at that, those pesky trousers remaining barely below his narrow hips, but I didn’t mind. With my tongue as a guide, I traipsed through the lower belly hair as if on a mission. At the crease, where cock conjoined with body, I lapped the prickly skin into my lips and mashed them together. Cullen’s cock bounded higher up at the move, knocking against the underside of my jaw.

With only my lips, I worried the tender flesh enveloped around his cock. Each micro-kiss carried me higher towards the crown. The symbol of rule, power. It wasn’t who owned the crown that had the power, but the person controlling it. Circling my tongue, I slicked down his cock, my lips pursed tight at the first touch. With each gain by millimeters, I opened my mouth wider, guiding the gasping man deeper into my sway.

He yet had one hand hooked to the waistband of his pants, trying to tug them lower to give me all the access I wanted. The other kneaded into my shoulder, fingers digging and scraping as he struggled to wrench himself back from the brink. I need not pull him clear down my throat, the cup of my hand making delectable work on the lower half of his being. It was the head that had my full attention anyway, every circle of my swirling tongue wrenching forth a moan.

The flesh in my hand plumped tighter against the seal, my fingers scrabbling to keep up. I moved to unhinge my jaw wider, when Cullen graced the back of his hand to the side of my cheek. When I looked up I discovered a man fully undone, his chest sparkling from sweat, the blush of excitement burning across his flesh.

“You,” he gulped, his fingers gliding from my cheek towards the sweater. As his bottom lip tumbled out, a gasp puttering free, his palm circled around my breast. Blessed Maker! I squirmed in place, thrusting my chest out for more of his ministrations. Each swirl graced the soft sweater against my nipple, my eyes crushing tight as I marinated in the pleasure.

When no hand found my other breast, nor did he finish his statement, I risked a peek. Those amber eyes stared hungrily through the ivory wool, finding the dark shadow of a nipple below. “I what?” I asked, rising higher on my knees to try and meet him face to face.

His teeth bit down on his bottom lip, hard, candle-flame eyes honing from my panting chest up to my face. With a snarl, he said, “You are a pain.” Gripping onto my shoulders, he heaved me backward. The mattress bent from my addition, prepared to rebound, when Cullen’s hands slammed in beside me.

I laughed, locking the bare legs that drove him to such babbling pains around his waist. Another matter strained against my lower belly, the lubrication I left behind slicking it upon my skin. The motion brought forth yet another groan from the man.

Cullen dug his forehead to mine, his eyes tight while he pulled in a breath to inflate his body. As the chest pushed me deeper to the mattress, words dripped from his lips. “You are impossible to keep safe. To protect. To predict.”

Chuckling, I rifled the heel of my palm through his beard, starting at the jaw. As it drew closer to his lips, he turned to plant a kiss. I asked, “Would you have it any other way?”

Those always cautious, always guarded eyes whipped up to mine. The breath froze in my throat, tension shattering the cozy autumn air. Cullen leaned deeper into the mattress, all of his weight dragging us down until I felt the box frame bounce into my spine. Still, he kept on, his nose burrowing into my cheek, the fire in his eyes blinding me.

A breath’s distance from my lips, he whispered, “No.” Ravenous kisses resumed, my hunger puckering his bottom lip between mine, rolling in the firm flesh that pouted to try to match me. But he couldn’t compete with my ferocity. I could kiss every inch of his body morning, noon, and night. Rake my nails across the scarred skin dotted with freckles. Flex my thighs against his ropey hips.

Gasping, Cullen rounded up my wrists, yanking both back off his body and bundled them in his fists. “You are impossible,” he sputtered, even while skirting his lips over my jaw. The kisses rose higher, his tongue lapping over my earlobe as I smiled.

I caught his eyes dusted over with lust. Popping my eyebrows, with all the hubris in my stable, I answered, “I know.”

His hands released mine, both quickly knotting around the hips of my knickers. He twisted the grip around his fingers, winding it the way a drowning sailor would a rope, and yanked them straight down. I barely had a chance to bend my knees before they flew away through the golden light.

We both eyed up their final flight, Cullen’s shaggy head whipping back to me. I watched the fire rise from his gullet as he swirled his palm up my thigh. It wrung out the muscle, the temptation parting my legs wider even as I straddled up on my knees.

“Well,” I dug my hands to the hem of the sweater, “I won’t be needing this.” Before I could free myself, his unbreakable grip snagged my elbow and held my crossed arms in place.

“No, keep it on,” his breath bounced against me.

“Why?” I glanced down at my breasts, both aching to savor in his naked skin flush against them.

“So whenever I see you wearing it,” he whispered, hot breath trickling down my throat. His lips sought out mine, a hand rolling over my spine. Suddenly, he lowered me back, his naked thighs spreading mine wider. With a smile, he said, “I’ll remember this.”

Cullen thrust that stalwart crown inside of me, my body arcing to drag it deeper inside. I dug my head back into the rumpled quilt, my hands scrabbling to clutch at an anchor. Sparks darted through my vision, like the final vestiges of the lightning bugs as summer’s warmth faded to fall’s chill. His hips rocked gently against me, the man pleading for more as I did the same.

Give it to me. All of it.

He scooped a hand under my back, lifting it higher through the air until… _Sweet blood of Andraste!_ Pleasure arced from my begging loins to the tips of my toes and down my fingers. “Yes,” he crowed, pleased with my reaction as I fumbled deeper into the abyss. The thrusting amped from a rhythmic flutter to a flurry. I lashed out, wrapping my hand around his forearm to keep my back upright, to keep his cock bounding right against that perfect node.

Yes.

_Yes!_

That’s perfect.

_Don’t stop!_

Warmth swarmed my body, a tingling heralding the oncoming storm. I waded into the shallow pool of pleasure, clinging with all my might to the volatile perfection. Another thrust sent me tumbling over the edge, the orgasm walloping my soul. I crammed the heel of my hand between my jaws, biting down to try and compensate from the overload pulsing from my vagina. It barely made a dent, Cullen still stroking every pounding ache of joy like the maestro he was.

“Gah,” fluttered from my lips, my flitting brain incapable of forming words.

Cullen released his hold, allowing my limp spine to meld to the bed. I shifted, prepared to switch up the position, when he bent over while still inside of me. Both hands locked to my wrists, pinning me down like a butterfly to a board. Helpless, I stared up into his hooded eyes, my vagina clamping tighter to his cock to siphon off every ebb of pleasure.

Gulping, I moistened my panted throat enough to speak. “Do you want it?”

His face twisted to the side, a ghost of a smile rising. Even with my hands splayed out, I lifted my head off the bed. Cullen met me, our foreheads nearly colliding as I whispered, “Do you _need_ it?”

Lips stole away my breath, Cullen needing it as his thrusting increased ten-fold. I cried in a perfect agony as the already primed explosions continued to rock my body. The shockwaves lessened with each pass, but they were worth the ride.

“I…” His weary head bent down, Cullen pushing me down with his forehead. As I collapsed, he lifted his own knees, his hips rolling to match the wave rising through us. Pinned to his will, I watched as the golden lion tipped his head to the sky and let out a roar, “I love you!” As went the words so did his orgasm, warmth spreading between my legs. The man collapsed atop of me, his sandy hair seeking refuge in the folds of the creamy sweater he would never forget.

Extinguished lips pressed fluttering kisses to my shoulder, Cullen’s slack leg curling over my hips as he clung to me. We panted together in ecstasy, savoring in the soft coo of doves flitting through the sparse branches. The scent of a forest turning in for a long sleep wafted through the breeze. It fluttered harvest gold curtains towards us, my eyes struggling to shake off the pleasure-induced blur to see beyond the golden haze.

“Do…?” His lips rose up from my shoulder, bounding against my throat. Despite his earlier protestations, a palm curled under the sweater. It traipsed from my stomach up to a breast, delighting in the bounce of flesh. “Do you want to get back to your book?” He asked, his voice as fresh as if we were speaking on the battlements in Skyhold instead of the man’s naked form enveloping me.

A smile consumed my face, and I spun on my side. Curling a hand down his arm, canvassing his stomach, and rounding back to pinch those fresh buns which could use a hard nibble, I answered, “It can wait ’til tomorrow.”

“Here.” He locked his leg fully around me, his naked flesh molding around mine. “So you don’t get cold.”

My worrier, always hurling himself in the way so I needn’t fret about a puddle. As he worked his magic, my body shaking off the chill of autumn, I murmured, “You know, winter will be arriving soon.”

Cullen butted his forehead to mine, his scar rising in a grin. “I’ll work even harder to keep you warm.” As we found each other again, from the windowsill a crow called out one last herald of winter’s arrival. It flitted freely into the darkening sun, shaking acorns for the squirrels rustling through fallen leaves. Smoke twisted from the chimney, the only proof of a small cabin hidden deep in the woods where the Commander and the Inquisitor enjoyed a cozy fall day.


	37. Care's Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris gets caught by Hawke cleaning up gangs that tried to attack the Champion. She invites him into her home and tries to wash the gore out of his hair. Fenris comes to realize his true worth in her eyes.

Hands clawed the ground; the final man’s valiant effort to retreat. Too little and far too late. Fenris placed a boot to the back of the gang member’s knee and pushed all his weight onto it. Before the bandit had a chance to scream, the elf’s greatsword bisected through the back of the throat. The body slumped dead to the ground along with the other ten who’d dared to trail her.

Blood gurgled down the gutters like a spring rain, the scarlet river a consistent of most Kirkwall nights. Fenris eyed up the last man left dying, curious if there was any coin on him worth excavating. It’d been a few days since he’d bought proper food from a stand — they always demanded he pay upfront in the Kirkwall markets. With his back turned from the light, he crouched down to search for what could become a potential meat pie or jug of wine.

“Fenris?”

The voice startled him to the quick, his steady hands erupting to toss a few coppers into the pools of blood. Spinning on his haunches, Fenris gazed up at the woman in red finery. Her hair was yet piled up in curls, a strange sight to the man who typically saw her in a helmet. Instead of the armor, she selected shimmering fabrics to caress her body. Even the hose, crimson as a sunset, looked finer than spider’s silk.

“What are you doing here, Hawke?” Fenris mumbled, rising to his feet. He should turn, walk back into the shadows from whence he emerged, but his feet were lead upon the cobbles. Limply, his battle-stained hands hung against his thighs.

“Well,” she drew a finger along her jaw in thought, her sharp eyes cutting through him, “I was about to head in for the night when I heard the tell-tale sound of steel swiping against leather.”

He’d been too slow this time. Every other night’s trip, Fenris would wait until Hawke passed far enough ahead before ending those who’d try to harm her. Whether for a bounty or bragging rights he didn’t know, but Fenris always dispatched them before she became aware. Almost always.

“Knowing that someone was about to get shanked,” Hawke continued, “I snatched up my daggers and ran to find you…in a sea of blood.”

As she gestured to the scarlet puddle at his feet, Fenris snorted, “Hardly a sea.”

“Would you prefer a lake?”

“A pond, perhaps?” he threw out, his voice haggard from the burst of exercise. A soft laugh broke from Hawke, whether from his words or actions didn’t matter. The sight of her laughing was enough to ensnare Fenris’ attentions.

“Here,” she reached a hand out, her perfumed, polished fingers wrapping around his. Before he could register that she was now stained in the blood herself, Hawke pulled him closer, “come inside for a drink.”

“I don’t know if…” he whispered, his voice falling down a hole even as he stumbled towards her door. His feet felt ten miles away encased in ice, the boots slapping against the ground without sensation. “It is very late,” Fenris said by way of excusing himself.

He’d allowed the gang draw too close to her door, the bodies practically piled up on her stoop. Foolish. She could have been hurt, caught by surprise as she returned from yet another noble party. “I’m certain you had a long night,” he mumbled, frozen upon her threshold as if it were unseemly for him to enter her estate.

Hawke wasn’t having any of his excuses. Leaning her hip against the doorjamb, she chuckled, “Not as long as yours, I’d imagine. Come on, one drink. Then you can go back to hurling bottles at the walls at home.”

With no recourse, Fenris gave into Hawke’s magnetic pull. It wasn’t until the door shut behind him that he remembered the last time he’d been here, and the reason why he stopped visiting her at home. His body froze, arms loose, hands open, legs limp to prove he was no danger. That he wouldn’t hurt her again.

Seemingly unaware of the fault, Hawke laid both her set of daggers and his greatsword upon a table. She said something about Bodhan and Sandal attempting to bake that day, when she turned on her heel. Those entrancing eyes burned into Fenris and she gasped, “Maker’s breath!”

“What?” He patted at a cheek, uncertain if there was a wound or not through the muck.

“Your hair, it’s soaked in blood,” Hawke answered, before stepping back, “And it’s dripping onto the floor.”

“Oh,” Fenris glanced down at a blood drop, the toe of his boot trying to blot it away. All he managed to do was smear it around. He should leave. Remain outside so he didn’t stain her foyer.

“Come on,” Hawke enveloped his hand in hers, tugging him deeper into her home instead of out.

Fenris followed her, even as his eyes continually darted down to watch the trail of gore seeping off his body. “What are you doing?”

“Washing that off of you. You’re liable to get…I don’t know, some kind of blood mage disease.”

She marched him not towards the stairs, not up the long walk to her bedroom that once seemed so short. No, instead, Hawke herded him towards the kitchens. They were often the site of Varric playing cards with Bodhan and Isabela. Sometimes the blood mage would sit on a stool watching while eating a tray of small cakes. Fenris used to join in, even savoring a laugh or drink with the group.

It felt ages since he’d last seen them.

A small fire burned in the stone hearth, only an iron pail above it for company. Hawke released her grip upon Fenris, apparently certain he wouldn’t flee. She yanked up an old wooden barrel from the corner and tossed it to the middle of the floor.

“Hawke, this is…you need not trouble yourself over me.”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not trouble.” She picked up a tea towel and wound it around the pail’s handle. Yanking the bucket off the fire, she dumped steaming water into the barrel. “Got to let it cool a bit, Bodhan likes his baths hotter than lava.”

The pair stood side by side, Fenris in blood-soaked armor, Hawke in perfumed finery, watching steam gush from the water’s edge. Neither spoke, though both drowned in words. The unspoken sentences and paragraphs that dogged their every meeting for nearly a year clogged up Fenris’ lungs. Late at night, or truthfully early morn, he’d toss in his bed thinking himself to have finally unearthed the courage to speak them. But one glance at Hawke and his spine melted. All he could do was trail behind and keep her safe.

It was all he was worth.

Hawke rolled up the sleeve of her blouse and dipped her elbow into the bucket. “Ah, there we go. It’s warm but not break into blisters hot.” Getting to work, she dipped the pail back into the bucket to excise most of the water. She was in such a hurry she forgot to roll up her other sleeve, drenching it in the process.

Fenris winced at that, but she paid it no heed. Instead, Hawke tipped her head to the barrel and said, “Well…”

“This is, I can do this at home,” Fenris continued to insist, watching the watery reflection of Hawke blow a breath in consternation.

“At your place, I bet the water’s got more blood in it than your hair. Sit already.” She was nearing exhaustion which meant there was a good chance Hawke would try to drag him down.

Knowing when he was licked, Fenris dropped to a knee. He inched closer to the bucket, his breath held for fear of the stench of rotten eggs, but none wafted from the water. It smelled as pure as a mountain spring.

“What are you doing?” Hawke didn’t seem pleased that he was facing the water, causing Fenris to look up at her. When he’d wash his hair, which was when the mood suited him, he’d usually dunk his whole head into the lukewarm water and shake it off.

“I’m...attempting to…”

“Turn around, you’ll drown otherwise.”

“Turn around?” Fenris repeated, confusion knotting up his brow as he watched Hawke hefting the mysterious pail up.

“You put the back of your head against the barrel,” she explained. For a brief second, her fingers wafted near his head to elucidate her point. At the thought of her forbidden touch, Fenris flinched, causing Hawke to snake her hand away. With barely a dip in her voice, she continued, “Then I pour clean water over your head so the gross part runs into the bucket.”

Fenris blinked slowly, digesting the thought. He swiveled back to stare into the barrel before gazing up at her. “I hadn’t considered,” was his answer as he leaned back. The lip of the wooden barrel bit into a tender divot at the middle of his skull but he shook off the pain.

“How else does someone wash your hair for you?” Hawke sighed.

No one did. Not a slave’s hair. Not a man on the run. Fenris hadn’t even imagined the notion, the idea of someone else tending to his needs as foreign a thought as a man walking on the sun.

“Okay, here it comes,” Hawke announced. “Ah, might want to scoot closer to the tub,” she ordered. Fenris did as told, sliding back until his neck rested on the lip, his head floating above the bucket. Without another warning, Hawke tipped the pail over. Warm water struck his forehead, Fenris’ eyes closing on instinct. They remained sealed through the gentle shower parting, then drenching, his hair.

He was about to open them, sit up and shake the water off, when fingers as gentle as a breeze curled up his scalp and began to comb his locks back. Hawke would dump another small cup of water after making a pass, then shift to a new section to begin again. Every tender tug of her fingers trying to unknot his mane soothed Fenris’ nerves. His body relaxed so, the stone floor of the kitchen felt softer than a feather bed.

“There we go. Now time for the soap,” Hawke narrated, the sound of the pail striking the floor causing Fenris’ eyes to open. He stared upward at her soggy sleeves tugging away from the ex-slave’s bloody hair as she fished for something in a cupboard. This was foolish. Pointless, really. He didn’t need this level of attention from someone like the Champion of Kirkwall.

He didn’t deserve it either.

“This one’s…hm,” Hawke placed a bar to her nose and sniffed, “lavender I think. Well, it’s all we have.” Dipping both her arms into the water without a care, Hawke lathered her hands with the soap bar. Bubbles rose up her forearms right next to his face, a few breaking away to tickle Fenris’ nose. He felt an urge to laugh but swallowed it down as Hawke began to vigorously rub the soap over his hair.

Where before was a kiss of rain, this was a massaging hailstorm. Each of her fingers rubbed against his scalp, reviving the slumbering nerves as she tried to wash away the gore. “Maker’s breath, there’s so much blood in there your hair’s turned pink,” Hawke gasped.

“Really?” Fenris grumbled, lifting his head up as if there was a mirror around to look.

Her palm soothed over his forehead, leaving a smear of soap behind, as if she feared he might still run. “It’s not a bad look for you. Softens your image.”

Fenris snarled, causing Hawke to laugh so exuberantly his attempts at brooding imploded. Maker save him, but he was enjoying this. Hawke, despite her tendency to leave a cemetery’s worth of bodies in her wake, was so tender while tending to him. As if someone like him should have his hair washed by another, his feet cleansed, his clothes tended to. It was a preposterous thought.

“Okay,” Hawke announced, dropping the soap bar to the ground. She looked about to turn away, when she suddenly swept both her hands over the top of his scalp, bisected the fingers and tugged his hair straight up. Fenris vaguely felt the rise of his soapy locks refusing to fall, a sneer at the move rising in his lips, when he caught Hawke’s endearing smile.

Her sparkling eyes drifted from the two foot stand of hair she gave him to his eyes. Wincing, she said, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself.”

Fenris grumbled, uncertain what answer he could give.

“Now to just wash it all off,” Hawke continued to narrate. A strange thing. Even in the midst of battle she kept her orders terse and clean. Filling the space of silence seemed more a Merrill trait.

Oh.

Of course.

It was because of him. Because of what he did.

Fenris’ body tensed into a coil, the once tender ground hard as steel below him. With his spine a board, he tipped his head back towards the bucket as if to get this over with quickly. Perhaps Hawke sensed his sudden reluctance, maybe she too realized the mistake of this kindness. Either way, the first dump of hot water wiped away her styling.

His eyes remained open, Fenris battle tense as he stared upward into Hawke’s face. She nibbled on her lip in thought, her nose scrunched up as she continued to guide more of the cleansing water through his hair. It should unnerve him, to stare up into the iron gaze of the Champion of Kirkwall in a domestic setting. No armor, only silks and shifts. No war paint, only perfumes and rouge. No snarling lips, only a tender concern as she patiently scrubbed through his bloody mess.

It should unnerve him to find peace in this gentle Hawke, but it didn’t.

And that fact unnerved him to the core.

“Oh,” the bucket slipped in her fingers, some water dribbling down his forehead. As fast as she could hurl a dagger, Hawke slipped a hand above his eyes. “Don’t want to get soap in them,” she said with a laugh.

A kind hand, without thought, protecting him from something as trivial as a dab of soap in his eye. A generous heart brushing through his mop to make certain it was spotless. The seal in his mind, put there by Danarius lighting his body with lyrium, cracked. Images seeped through, not memories exactly. There were no faces he could discern, no voices, but a feeling.

A hand against his head, safety in his mind, and warmth in his heart.

“Well,” the warm waterfall ceased, Hawke sliding away off her knees, “that should…” As her palm raised away from shielding his eyes, she stared at the water streaking his cheeks. It didn’t slip past her guard against his forehead, but fell from his eyes. And he didn’t know how to stop it.

“I need to get you a towel still,” Hawke dropped the pail, already dashing off to wherever they kept their linens. “Just, drip dry over the bucket until I get back,” were her parting orders.

Fenris spun onto his hands, both palms clutching tight to the cold stones. He dug his forehead into the barrel’s lip, listening to the drip-drop of the water sluicing off his hair. _Why did he come here? Why did he keep himself forever in her thrall? Why was she so needlessly kind to him?_

Warmth draped around his shoulders, Fenris sitting up in surprise to find a towel cupping the back of his head. As his eyes landed upon Hawke, she stepped away and shrugged. “Found one.”

The deathly silence returned, only their heartbeats bounding about the kitchen. Fenris scrubbed at his hair, trying to wick away as much moisture as possible before he returned to the cold night.

“After our baths, my mother would always braid our hair. Mine and Bethany’s. To give us a curl in the morning. I…” Hawke’s story crumbled, a hand wrapped around her elbow as she bit through the trauma of loss not even a year old.

He wished he knew what to say. The others had mothers. Whether as gentle and kind as Liandra, or harsh and strict at least it gave them something to share with Hawke. All he had was a void that would never fill.

“Though, I don’t think you have enough hair to braid,” Hawke threw out, clinging back to a laugh as he gave her nothing.

“No, I suppose not,” Fenris muttered. Tugging the towel off his hair, he shifted his head, savoring in the light bounce of the strands where it’d been dragged down by oil, sweat, and blood. Hawke had a way of lifting him no matter how hard he fought her help.

Passing the towel to her, Fenris said, “Thank you.” He may be a misanthropic ex-slave who squatted in a derelict mansion but he wasn’t without manners. At least he had that to keep him warm at night.

With his words drained, Fenris turned away from Hawke. There was still the long walk back to his cold bed to make. He made it towards the doorway, when Hawke sputtered, “I know you’ve been following me.”

Fenris froze, his wet hand digging into the doorframe. Ragged breaths tried to scrape down his throat as he closed his eyes. Slowly, he risked a glance back. Hawke was unreadable as she worried the towel in her fingers.

“Dispatching all those gangs who like to trail the Champion at night,” she tipped her head towards the front door and the pile of corpses Fenris left behind.

“You’d think they’d know better than to challenge you,” he grumbled in his chest.

“Kirkwall isn’t known for breeding smart criminals,” Hawke quipped back. For a brief second, he thought that was the end of it. She said her peace, and he’d keep his distance. “I don’t need a bodyguard, Fenris.”

There it was. He’d kept to the shadows, waited until she’d long since passed, made certain to never linger because…because he feared her refusing. Turning away the only gift he could ever give. The only job in life he was worthwhile at.

“You don’t,” he agreed, well aware of the Champion’s skill. It was why she was given her title after all.

“I don’t want one either,” Hawke continued, her breath stumbling as if she ran into the room. That was a fair assessment as well. She’d have very little use for a personal bodyguard, and where there was no use there was no point. Accepting his lot in life, Fenris turned towards the door.

“What I want is a friend,” she spoke quick, freezing him in place. “Not someone who…who skulks in the dark. Who takes care of my problems without even telling me. Who walks ten steps behind.”

Andraste’s Mercy, he did that. He did all of that and without thought. It was what Danarius demanded of him. What was expected of him. What he thought was wanted of someone as useless as him.

“What…” Fenris gulped, his throat raw as he faced a ghost he thought he slew long ago. The past was impossible to kill. “What do you want?”

Hawke slid her foot over the wet floor, forming a half circle before her body in thought. It was oddly girlish to come from a grown woman, but she shrugged and her smile bloomed. “For you to walk by my side. To not think of yourself as a bodyguard. To go with me, shoulder to shoulder, around Kirkwall.”

To be an equal.

No, that was…preposterous.

He was…he wasn’t…or was he?

“That,” Fenris stared into her hopeful eyes, “sounds acceptable.”

“So no more waiting to trail me after noble parties?” Hawke asked, her tone playful. Still chastised, Fenris’ gaze drifted down and he shook his head. “You could attend them with me instead.”

His head whipped up, a finger raising along with his snarl, when Hawke laughed. “Or not,” she giggled, bringing a chortle to him as well. “But there’s always a night of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man after. And I could use a second against Varric and my own dog.”

From under the towel came Hawke’s hand. The same one she proffered to him when he hired random strangers to defeat slavers in Kirkwall. The same one that pulled him off of Hadria’s corpse and into her arms. The same one that protected his eyes from soap.

Fenris curled his fingers around hers as gently as a fall of rain. “I’d like nothing more,” he declared.


	38. Ribbons, Cullen X Inquisitor (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition is invited to celebrate Orlais' version of Valentine's Day, but Cullen is in no mood. Not until he and the Inquisitor slip off to have their own private party.
> 
> I wanted to release this on Valentine's Day, but time slipped away. So enjoy some later February Cullen smut.

A flutter of red satin skirted across my vision. I turned, watching three girls scamper after a man festooned in a mass of curling ribbons. Most were red, but I noticed a few yellow knotted around his wrists and thighs. The Orlesians were in bright form, nearly all skipping and cavorting regardless of their age. While the masks remained tightly knotted to their faces, the clothing was not. Skirts were hiked high, straps pulled low, shirts fully abandoned. I hadn’t seen so many flailing body parts since Sera threw that hive of hornets into the bathhouse.

Spring’s revitalizing sun beamed down across the trampled meadow. Tents of the finest silks encircled the grounds. They barely shuddered in the gentle winds, their banners for the tempting offers inside fluttering to catch excited eyes. Everyone was in a jolly mood to celebrate the holiday.

Everyone except for one gruff lion.

I turned from watching Dorian accept his tenth red ribbon, and Varric shaking off another’s advances with his stein, to watch the lone storm cloud stomp through the festivities. While everyone else was in thin shifts, frilled skirts, and — for some — just their underthings, he kept every stitch of armor on. Even the fur, which had to be the cause of the fever rising across his forehead.

Rising from my chair, I snaked a hand out to catch the man before he made yet another round of ‘ruining everyone’s fun.’ Amber eyes that’d languidly scoured the scampering denizens snapped to me. When I smiled and curled a wave, Cullen’s pursed lips finally relaxed.

“You look as if you’re preparing for war,” I said, my eyes drifting down to the sword naturally upon his hip.

The Rutherford sigh I’d heard mimicked across the barracks erupted from his lips. “This is foolish.”

“Of course it is,” I said extending my hand to the mass of adults chasing each other like nymphs and satyrs. “It’s love.”

Cullen snorted, his sneer cocked as he too scrutinized the scampering. “That is not love. It’s people who proclaim themselves to be the epitome of civilized running around like animals for a few days until they sober up.”

A laugh broke through my lips which I failed to stifle. My poor, disconcerted general spun upon me, his eyes narrowing as if I turned traitor. Ignoring the cries for more wine, women, and music, I slid so my hip knocked into Cullen’s. Enveloping my arm over top of his, I staggered up on my tiptoes. The thick bear fur tickled through the thin fabric of my dress, nearly causing me to giggle in his ear.

But I soldiered on, swallowing the laugh, and whispered instead, “Last I checked, behaving like a rutting animal in heat is love.”

“That is lust, not…” Cullen began, as if he was a die-hard romantic who had to defend the concept to the death. His rant fizzled as he turned his scruffy cheek and those amber flame eyes stared into mine. No doubt he realized my breasts were astride his bicep, my loins pressing to the side of his hip, and my lips a breath away. A hand circled my waist, pinning me to him.

“Not what?” I asked, struggling to maintain my balance on the near tips of my toes. Maker’s sake, why was he so tall?

“Not…not, um…” Amber eyes darted from mine to my lips, then further to the warm chasm in my bodice. His tongue rolled over his lips, when he dry swallowed and the professional mask slammed down. “Not a productive use of our time.”

“Come now, _Commander_ ,” I leaned into his title even as I felt his fingers thrumming the top of my ass. “Everyone needs a break. Besides, we were invited.”

“By feckless Orlesians who manage to turn the simplest of matters into a convoluted mess,” he grumbled, showing his teeth. I glanced down his body to find that he bore no ribbons. Not even a small yellow one knotted to his wrist. Either he was very fast at escaping, or any who approached he glared to death.

“How else does one celebrate Ysolt and Durstan?”

A romantic tale from before the chantry itself. Durstan and Ysolt were two doomed lovers, separated by a great storm that shipwrecked Ystolt upon an island. There was no wood for her to build a new one to return to her beloved, but she found weeds and vines. With them she’d weave a rope long enough to cross the sea to Durstan. But the weeds were thick with thorns that pierced her fingers with each braid. By the time she set out, the vines were stained red with her blood. Drained by both the swim across the ocean and her blood spilling out behind her, she reached Durstan near death. They shared a last kiss before Ysolt died at his feet.

It was an incredibly popular poem for courts as well as an excuse to dress in your lightest clothing and chase each other around. Ribbons were knotted to those you wanted, red for true love, yellow for a bit of fun. Most used red regardless of how they’d feel come the morrow, but it was the spirit of the thing that swept all up.

All except for my dour Commander who couldn’t stop sneering at the holiday. His free hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, but the other — that remained pinned to my buttocks. “We celebrate with small gifts, a flower, or cake. This is…barbaric,” Cullen growled.

“Really? All of Ferelden?” I scoffed. Ostwick didn’t engage in quite the same level of pomp as the Orlesian court but we certainly didn’t limit it to tossing a single daisy at someone.

“Yes,” Cullen insisted, but at my discerning eye, he balked. “Most I know.”

At that moment a mass of his Ferelden soldiers drunkenly stumbled by. All were in their underwear, and all were covered in ribbons. I turned to the man who could kill any party dead. “Most?”

His feathers ruffled, Cullen shaking those stout shoulders as if he could pretend he didn’t notice them. “It’s foolish, stupid…” he kept on, his words trailing off as his eyes swept over me. “A pointless farce.”

I knew he’d kept himself aloof of attachments, and that the templars would probably not go in for this level of drunken buffoonery. But surely even Cullen was young once. That heady sixteen when you blush if the winds shift and your heart races at the thought of tying a ribbon around your crush. Yet, the way he glared like a city dweller watching dragon’s mate I began to wonder. Had no one ever chased him down? None ever pinned their affections upon his body?

That couldn’t be right.

Warm breath caressed my ear as he whispered, “You’re not exactly wearing any ribbons either.”

“I’m the Inquisitor,” I said, my head rising high. Cocking an eye, I caught Cullen’s. “How many do you think are worthy of my attention?”

A gulp rattled in his Adam’s apple, Cullen’s body shrinking away from mine, when I cupped my fingers to his bum and gave a good pinch. Laughter replaced his worry in an instant, Cullen scooping his forehead over mine. The braying of the Orlesians faded like cricket song as we folded together.

“I feared I might have scared them off,” he breathed.

“Oh, you have done a bang-up job terrifying most. I think I saw two men leap into the horse trough to escape you.”

He winced at that, which caused me to as well. Weary eyes drifted away from mine, “I don’t want to ruin your fun, to…”

I caught his wandering cheek and aimed his sight at me. “Cullen, you don’t. I dare say it’s not much fun until you’re in the mix.”

A grateful cough broke from his throat, as if he had to expel all his worries. Smiling painfully, he nodded his head against mine. “Good.” At the sound of a gong breaking through the air, we slid apart. The obligatory wheelbarrow races were underfoot, everyone trying to find a partner to hoist up or hold them. I caught Bull insisting Krem could hold both of his legs, but the poor man strained at the thought and waved Dalish over to help.

When the second bang went off, so too did the racers. Ribbons flopped back and forth, getting into faces and causing almost instant collisions. Everyone was laughing, not caring if they wound up in the mud.

“Incidentally,” I said, my eyes upon the race. “I’m not certain if you heard, but they were kind enough to give the Inquisitor her own private tent.”

Cullen perked up, a half smile tugging on his scar. “Did they now?”

“Though,” I turned to the man finally beaming with interest, “I have yet to see it in person. I was waiting for the proper time.” Curling my hands into his, I wafted my fingertips over his palms and slowly up his forearms. It kept pulling Cullen tighter and tighter to my body.

“Damn it, Krem! Lift with your legs!”

“Now’s perfect,” Cullen said.

We took one last look over the revelry, but everyone else was too besotted to pay any attention to the Inquisitor and her Commander slipping into a bungalow. That was what they sold it as, Josephine talking it up as if I’d find a gilded cabin mixed in with the Orlesian fields. Seeing as how most of my time traveling was spent in leaking tents or under the stars, I was content with a roof.

A sign marked Inquisitor dangled over the top, warning all whose this was. Round domes formed the ceiling, towering at least seven feet high so neither of us would have to stoop. Swirls of color rounded from the top of the main dome down the sides, reds and yellows to match the theme of the day. Flitting my finger through the slat, I took a breath and staggered inside.

Silk sheets of an opalescence shine glimmered upon a short mattress three feet off the ground. Attached to the bed itself were four posts, each hammered deep into the dirt. Flirty canopies dangled off them, the fabric so fine it was nearly translucent. I reached to finger the glimmering curtain when my toes skimmed over black fur.

A trio of fur rugs rested in a halo around the bed: wolf, mountain cat, and bear. It was the bear that I kept dragging my toes through, my eyes closed as I delighted in the course but lush comfort that felt so familiar.

“This is…not what I was expecting,” Cullen spoke, his eyes wide as he stared around the fantastical bungalow.

Catching sight of a wine bottle perched upon a table, I picked up one of the flutes and twirled it in my fingers. “Orlesians, they never do anything by half measures.”

“To put it mildly,” he gulped, his eyes staring at the roof, then the bed. After canvassing the private quarters, they finally landed upon me. I braced myself for a shake of his head, but the smirk rose along with his scar and the internal lion roared in his eyes.

“No one here,” Cullen said, his long stride quickly crossing to me. A hand scooped along my back, tucking me to his body. Laughing, I tried to put the flute down, but he pulled me so quickly into his embrace it was trapped between us.

“No one else allowed,” I said, glancing from his candle lit eyes down to the tip of his tongue trailing his scar.

“No one looking for us,” he rumbled, his gloved palm folding around my cheek. The fingers skimmed like rain’s kiss over my skin until nestling to the nape of my neck. Once there, he hoisted me on my tiptoes, the pair of us meeting eye to eye.

A gasp escaped at how certain he was, how he seemed to have shaken off the foolish aspects of the holiday in an instant. Running my fingers along his surcoat, the crimson fabric wadding in my fist as I pulled myself ever tighter to him, I opened my mouth. My chin planted atop his, the tip of my nose skimming over his. I breathed heat into his parted lips, Cullen’s eyes closing tight as his hands roamed around my backside.

In my sultry voice, I purred, “Not for hours.”

Amber burned into my sight, Cullen launching forward. His lips plunged to mine before I could even finish my sentence. The hands that’d been chastely massaging my back rounded over the thin shift clinging to my ass. He scooped his palms around both cheeks, the fingers kneading deeper into my crack as he kept hoisting me higher and higher.

Wrapping a hand around his shoulders, my tongue found his first. It tapped against his slumbering hunger, daring it to come out and play. The hands pinched my ass, Cullen up for the challenge. As he twirled his tongue over mine, then rolled my bottom lip to his mouth, I felt my feet leave the ground. Wiggling my toes, I skimmed them over the bear fur, waiting to be hauled to the bed or elsewhere.

But a groan erupted from Cullen and the fingers cupping my ass faded and I slithered to the ground. When I returned to my shorter stature, he bent with, our foreheads skimming as he took a cleansing breath. Cullen placed a few sweeter pecks to my lips as his palms scooped around to my hips. He’d been so embroiled in kissing me he didn’t even realize he plucked me off my feet.

That summed up our relationship, honestly.

Skimming my palm over his cheek, watching the flush burn over his face as he pulled in a breath, I kissed him on the forehead. “Before I take flight again,” I said, causing him to wince, “I best put this down.” Turning to the table, I returned the empty flute. Maker knew we didn’t need any liquid courage to grease the wheels.

I had every intention to drive that man to the empty bed, but my eyes caught a basket laid out for the Inquisitor. Andraste help me, but my curiosity won out. Spinning on my heels, I pulled off the small towel to dig inside. Cullen curled around behind me, both arms wrapping around my stomach as his chin dug into my shoulder.

“What’s in there?” he asked, watching as I laid each curiouser and curiouser object out.

“This looks like a jar of oil,” I said while placing down a brown glass bottle filled with a slow-moving liquid. “There’s a pack of ribbons.” All red. When I placed them on the table, Cullen snorted. “And this…”

From the mystery basket I pulled out a ten inch long thin cylinder. It was maybe an inch wide, with an inward curve at the top. Ivory hued, it was polished to a sheer shine. When twisting it around, I recognized the pattern — it was made from dragon bone, but its inclusion made little sense. Confounded, I hefted the tiny rolling pin in my hands.

“Ah,” Cullen, the man who’d been as chaste as a Brother for the past decade, plucked it from my fingers. “I know what this is.”

“What? You do?” I gasped, rotating to watch as he slicked his fingers up and down the shaft.

“It’s for…” He curled a hand from my hip over my ass until his fingers dipped into the crack and glanced for a moment over the anus. “There.”

A shudder twisted up my spine as I watched him play with the tool. “How do you know that?” I sputtered. “Have you been holding out on me, Rutherford?”

Cullen shrugged, his eyes drifting from the ivory toy to the ground as he placed it back on the table. “Sometimes templars have…a lot of time on their hands.”

“And they fill their hands with other things,” I finished, snickering. But even as I laughed, my imagination rampaged with images of him wrapping his hand around his cock as he tried playing with his back entrance. _Maker’s breath!_ My face lit hot at the idea, a hand raising to try and fan off the blush, as my eyes darted to the bottle of oil and kindly provided toy.

Picking it up in my fingers, I eyed the polished bone as I would check the edge of a sword. “Do you like it?” I asked, turning from the unassuming toy to my blushing Commander.

He was trying to wring the back of his neck off, his eyes burning through the roof of the tent. “I…I wouldn’t say…that is to mean…”

“Cullen,” I grabbed his hand before he drew blood, pulling his eyes to me. As they caught, a smile lifted on my lips. Bouncing the toy between us, I asked, “Do you really like it?”

Sighing from the bottom of his soul, he confessed, “Yes.”

Dashing forward, I kissed him hard. He struggled to rebound, my force pushing him backward while my hands ripped at his armor. Those wily fingers knew all the tricks, tugging off gloves, bracers, breastplates, pauldrons. Each piece struck the bearskin rug and when his skin was revealed, I’d rake my nails over it. Prayers would erupt into my mouth, Cullen gulping from my scratching until he was in naught but his trousers.

Round that point, he finally struck the bed. It was his calves that had to fend off the blow, but with nowhere else to turn, he sank to the mattress. I broke off my voracious lips and paused before him. Amber eyes stared at me, his hands left to cling to his knees.

Sunlight cut through the colored fabric, shifting his sandy blond locks strawberry. It also highlighted the scars across his strong chest, igniting the old flesh to a fresh and painful red. I ached to kiss the pains away, but instead I focused on the muscles and that one vein on both biceps that he had to keep covered or I’d turn into a wobbly mess. It’d make war room meetings rather awkward.

After taking another lap of his anticipating body, I caught his eyes. Amber stared at first in hunger, then confusion. Licking my lips, I grabbed the hem of my dress and hurled it clean off my body. Standing in only a thin pair of smalls and nothing else, I placed my hand to my hip and let Cullen drink me in.

Like a man fresh off wandering the wastes, his eyes peeled over every inch of me. I watched his fingers flex against his thighs when he landed upon my breasts, both bounding freely with my breathing. They seemed to want to touch me, badly. To cup my abundant flesh and twirl my nipples.

His trousers tented up as his mind no doubt filled with the scent, taste, and touch of me. The bulge rose higher, not caring for any buttons in the way. Flexing my thighs, I clenched inward at the sight of his erection straining for attention. Oh how I wanted to have him hurl me onto my back and pound away.

But…

Turning behind, I glanced at the mystery toy sitting on the table.

I leaned over to snatch something off the table, stuffing it in my fist as I finally reached for Cullen. His palm swept over my waist, quickly rising for the right breast as I leaned over.

“Blessed Andraste,” I gasped, those wily fingers coaxing my nipples to an ache. I tried to kiss him, but he kept causing moans to erupt from my body. Instead, I had to settle for rolling my forehead over his, my free hand worrying up and down his clothed thigh.

“Cullen,” I sputtered. Dragging my fingers from the crook of his elbow upward, I wrapped my palm around his wrist. The dance across my breast paused, not because I didn’t want it to last forever, but because he deserved more.

Worried eyes swung up to me, slowly blinking as I pulled what I wanted from my fist and began to work on his wrist. When I let go, Cullen’s hand tumbled back, and a red ribbon cascaded off his forearm. He stared at the mark of the holiday, shaking his arm so the ribbon serpentined.

“Do you accept it?” I asked, “My declaration of love.”

A snort rolled through his nose, but he bowed his head and in a soft voice answered, “Yes.”

“Good.” Working quickly, I knotted another around his other wrist. All the while, he kissed me, his hands returning to ignite my breasts. The ribbon twirled against my skin as he did so, my loins wetting with each touch. Maker, the highs his touch could cause, sometimes requiring only a finger or two to get me singing.

But I had other plans.

Cullen’s wandering tongue and kisses coating my throat, paused. As I leaned to the other side, releasing the ribbon, he moved his left arm to cup me…and found it trapped. Wild eyes darted to the bedpost where I strung him up with red ribbons. They bound his wrist in a scandalous crisscross, keeping the dear Commander tied in place.

A scoff shot out first, his eyes rolling as if it was a laugh. But I shook my head and got to tying the other arm up. “You can’t be…this is…you really don’t have to…” he babbled even as his eyes burned into my determined knotting. Those few years on ships when I was younger served me well. No chance he could slip those ties.

With my strapping commander caught in the silken web, his shoulders straining, the biceps flexing taut, I kissed him sweetly. When I curled my palm down his naked back, I felt a tremble rumbling up through the center of his being.

“Are you…?” I asked, my eyes watching as his lids fluttered.

It took a breath before he realized I asked him a question, his eyes flying open to stare at me. “Yes! Maker’s sake, I…!” The enthusiastic shout faded to a whisper as he purred in my ear, “I trust you.”

Grabbing his trousers, I yanked free the belt and tugged them clear down his hips. The force startled him, Cullen flexing his tied up hands on instinct. We both turned to a creak from the post, but it didn’t crack in half.

Fully naked and properly trussed up, I stood above and gazed down at the man seated upon the bed. He tried to lean forward, his lips pressing for my belly, but I crossed my arms and ordered, “To your knees.”

“Pardon?” The amber eyes fluttered in shock, even as he shifted his right leg inward to obey.

Cupping my hands to his shoulders, I padded my palms over the tight muscles, “I said…” Slowly, I helped push him towards the bear fur. The ribbons slid along the post, keeping his arms wide open. “To your knees.”

As he landed, his thigh muscles flexing to hold his body, Cullen pulled in an assuring breath. The pose of an eagle in flight that I trapped him in emphasized every tight muscle from his abs, to his pecs, and across those arms. But it was the rising cock that drew my attention.

At my orders, it pulsed, enlarging and swiping through the air. He was in a vulnerable position, his most tender areas on display as he rested upon his knees. But he’d never looked more powerful to me. How I wanted to sit on that exposed lap and ride on his cock until the posts shattered.

Cullen opened his palms to convey the shrug he couldn’t give. “Well…?”

Putting away my fantasies, even as the apex of my thighs slicked with wetness, I turned to the table. The amber bottle drew my attention first, both fingers digging into the concoction. It smelled of a pressed garden with a hint of lavender drifting through the oil. Dipping my whole hand in, I lubed up my palm, the oil dribbling down my forearm. The whole time Cullen watched with such intensity I feared I might burst into flames.

It had to be killing him knowing I was just beyond his reach and he could do nothing to assist. Forcing him to be tended to for once instead of the other way around.

Hefting up the ivory toy, I wrapped my slippery hand around. With a raised eyebrow, and cocked hip, I stared directly into Cullen’s eyes while lubing it up. A moan whiffled from his lips, his legs shifting wider apart as he watched me prepare. Every sensuous circle of my palm drew his eyes, his biceps flexing as he wrapped both hands around the ribbons. Digging tighter to his restraints, he pulled with every stretch to try and lean closer.

With slippery dragon bone in one hand, and the bottle of lube in the other, I dropped to the bear rug on my knees. Amber flames burned in my eyes, his tongue darting around his lips as he shifted impatiently in place. The coarse fur swept up my knees, cushioning them as I scooted closer. My free hand swept over Cullen’s scruffy jaw, tugging his lips to mine.

Igniting the kiss, I let his tongue overpower mine; the tied up, vulnerable man trying to take command. Meanwhile, my other hand curled over the dangling jewels on display. As I gently rolled them in my palm, Cullen gasped into my mouth. That hungry cock thrusted forward, glancing off my belly, but I wouldn’t envelop it. Not yet.

Slowly, I swept my finger back off the balls towards the quivering ass. While touching his taint drew a gasp, when the tip of my finger rounded about his pucker, Cullen’s jaw dropped. His head lifted heavenward as a smile shined from his closed eyes to his tightening lips.

A chuckle rumbled in my gut, and I whispered in his ear, “You do like this.”

“Well, it…” Whatever excuse he had snapped away as I lined the tip of the toy against his skin, ready to pierce deep. The bulbous end suckered in, Cullen gasping and tugging on his bonds.

I held my hand in place, not even an inch of the toy inside, while my fingers stroked across his trembling buttocks. “Deeper,” the man at my mercy sputtered.

“Are you sure?” Sweat percolated on his brow, his chest and arms straining as if he was about to implode.

But the lion smirked, his amber eyes winking as he said, “I can take it.”

“Oh,” I whispered. Rising on my haunches, I grabbed his chin and pointed those lips right at mine. “I know you can.” With that, I shoved the toy deep inside. Cullen’s lips slipped prayers when not gasping as he wiggled his backside to fit the dragon bone perfectly inside.

Locking my fingers tight to the end, lest it try to slip away from me, I watched that stoic, always-armored, closed-off man unfold. Every mask he wore, every knot he tied himself into, every fear of being judged unworthy evaporated as he tipped his grateful face to the ceiling. It was intoxicating, my thighs clenching to find a man brought so quick to the brink from my own ministrations.

Aching for more, to watch him come undone in such a state, I tugged the toy out. Not completely, but Cullen stared in surprise at the loss pressing deep inside of him — until I thrust it back in.

“Sweet Andraste!” he gasped.

Pleased with the reaction, I began to pick up steam, all while my free fingers swirled over his chest. Cullen matched the rhythm, his quivering thighs rising and falling opposite of me so he could bore himself out.

“Mer-mer-merciful…” His voice trailed off to muttering, too many moans racing to escape. As he bared down upon the pleasure toy, I savored in the bounce of his cock upon my skin. It glided up and down my belly, finding refuge in the small pucker from slouching. Would he come upon me so that it pooled into my belly button? Could I undo him that well?

Another crack at the posts caused me to whip my head over, but I didn’t give up the rhythm for a second. He strained so hard against his tether I spotted not one but two veins prodding over his biceps. The rate this was going either Cullen would explode or the bed would.

He mewled in his throat, his eyes screwed tight. His thrusting didn’t slow, but he seemed to be fighting against the plateau. Well, I knew one way to help. Circling my palm down his glistening chest, the dark blond hair parting from my fingers, I reached that pulsing cock and wrapped my hand around. I gave a tug upward, and Cullen groaned from the bottom of his balls.

“Wait!” he suddenly shouted, both my hands freezing in place. Wild eyes of a feral jungle cat stared at me. They blinked a few more times before the man emerged from barbaric depths. Cullen shook his head to clear the sweat away.

“Are you…?” Enjoying this. I gulped.

“Yes. Maker’s breath, yes. But I…” His hooded eyes drifted to the cock resting in my grip. They snapped up to mine, and in a low voice he growled, “I want something else.”

Nodding, I whispered, “Okay,” and tugged free the toy. As it thudded to the ground, my skin prickling with a taste of failure, I swept my eyes across his body. The pain vanished from my mind as I drank in the man strung up by ribbons. His famished cock pierced the air as he flexed his muscles, trying to use willpower alone to calm the rush of blood. When he glanced over my naked body, those eyes scooping across my chest, the cock gave one more request for attention.

“Oh, I should…” I rose up on my haunches, reaching for the ribbons to untie him, when Cullen whipped his left hand hard. The satin snapped with a crack, freeing him and leaving only a tattered end of red dangling off his wrist. He did the same to the other, only pausing to rub the rising redness from his escape while my jaw tumbled to the floor.

“Holy…shit that was hot,” I cried, dashing forward to scoop my hands around his stalwart body. He kissed me harder and hotter than watching him rip free of his bonds. As his hands swept over my waist, I delighted in the tickle of the shredded tears of the ribbons. They danced with his palms scooping under my breasts, Cullen tugging one up to guide to his mouth.

Kisses pressed to the pillowed flesh molding in his palm, then gentle nips. My entire lower half quivered in anticipation. When he reached my nipple, I want to scream and laugh at the same time. Every spark of pleasure shot straight down to my loins, which demanded his stroking, loving hands. Now.

“What?” I gulped, my fingers rustling through his hair. He rose from thrumming his tongue over my right nipple, but his fingers found their way there. “What did you want?” my voice spat in staccato, breath failing to find its way to my lungs.

A smirk lifted that scar and amber eyes flirted with me. “Do you trust me?”

I snorted, my body buzzing so powerfully my toes fell numb. Cullen rose to his feet, far steadier than I could manage, and walked to the table. Watching the naked man, his asscheeks glistening from the oil that I put there, an honesty tumbled from my heart. “With everything.”

Turning, he yanked the remaining ribbons so taut they snapped. I jumped in surprise, but my eyes turned wild at the thought of whatever he had planned. The pile of red silk slipped from his one palm, which he curled to my cheek to rustle through my hair. I savored in the gentle touch, but my attention was upon the ribbons bounding against his taut thigh.

Cullen took a knee, his lips parting mine. The heat trembled across my tongue as he took control of not only the kiss but my body. Like skimming the surface of a still pond, he drew two fingers from my naked shoulder down the interior of my arm. Goosebumps trailed his tender touch, my hand hanging in the ether as it waited for what he wanted.

Silk slithered across my thin wrist, the knot loose until he pushed it tight to my skin. I stared up into his eyes, the flame lit hot as he said, “My turn.”

With a smile, I extended out my other arm to be bound, but Cullen shook his head. Gently, he tugged the ribboned wrist backwards, Cullen walking behind me. “Blessed Maker,” he moaned. A palm caressed from the top of my back in soothing circles down my spine. I arched towards it, licking my lips as his wide hand landed flush upon the curve of my back, the fingers fluttering against my asscheek.

Still he held my bound arm extended backward as if I was reaching behind myself. Brushing my fallen hair back with his chin, he whispered in my ear, heat tingling clear down to my soaking-wet smalls, “Do you accept my affections?”

“With all my heart,” I admitted. Cheesy, but it was the truth.

The prowling lion paused, his eyes filling with an reachable thought. Bounding in the light, my head craned as far as it could to see, the amber fire softened to a sweet tan. Placing a kiss as soft as a feather’s touch to my lips, Cullen knotted up my other wrist as I had to him.

I expected to be pulled to the posts, but the freed hands swerved over my breasts. They bounced to his command, our lips struggling to meet to form a kiss, as he kept pulling my body back onto him. I delighted in the proud cock gliding between my asscheeks, his mouth moaning as my body tempted his. Sliding down from my breasts, over my stomach, Cullen picked at the knots on the hips of my smalls.

“Ribbons?” he murmured in my ear, finger and thumb fluttering with the tie to my underthings before slowly plucking it free. A cool breeze wafted over my soaking loins as the smalls tumbled free.

“I thought them…” I began to explain, when Cullen drew his thumb over my clit and plunged two fingers deep inside.

Gasping, first in surprise, then from the heat ramping up over my simmering body, I crashed against his chest. He held me upright, one hand clamped under my breasts, as he breathed in my ear, “I love it.”

Sweet Maker! I swiveled to match his finger play, the rhythm steady but lively. Each certain touch to my clit brought me closer and closer to perfection. Just a few more and…

His fingers slipped from me, digging into my thigh with my own wetness. Confused, I turned my head to catch his eye, then began to shift my whole body.

“Wait,” Cullen commanded, hands grabbing to my hips. He kept me facing forward as he slowly drew his hands back to my wrists. The cock left my buttocks, the chest my arching spine, and all I could do was stare at the empty bed as he tugged on my arms.

“What are you…?” I started, when I felt both my hands tied together. Instinctively, I stretched my shoulders, delighting in the tug. I thought that had to be it, until a hand landed flush to my stomach and tipped me slightly backward.

A soft ribbon twisted about my ankle, then the other, Cullen quickly securing my knotted hands to my feet. I tried to pull out of my 45˚ angle, but I was tied up tight, the ribbons constricting around my ankles and wrists. Trussed up like a holiday bird, all I could do was look up at the naked man pacing around me. I gave a little rock on my straddling legs, my bonds always pulling me back to the starting place. Where he wanted me.

“Is this when you try to get me to talk?” I laughed, turning to watch as Cullen sat before me.

Cupping his hand to the back of my head, he pulled me up so high, I balanced upon the edge of my knees. Our eyes burned across the narrow distance, my entire being resting in the palm of his hand. “No,” he growled, his lips plunging to mine. The second hand landed upon my thighs, fingers skipping over the spread muscles to dive back into my nethers.

Curses spat into the air, every muscle in my body straining as I leaned tighter and tighter to the man’s pleasureful hand. “This,” Cullen breathed in my ear, his hot tongue darting over the lobe, “is when I get you to shout.”

Both hands grabbed onto my hips, my body teetering backward without him holding me. An eep rolled on my tongue at the fear of falling on my nose, when I felt a knee dig into my thigh. A different gulp bobbed in my throat as Cullen locked his grip tight to my back and spread my legs as wide as they could reach.

Guiding with only his hips, he drew his cock down across my teetering belly to the sopping lips below. As it slipped and slid, Cullen’s forehead crashed to mine, his mouth begging for mercy. I strained at my bonds, aching to grab that wayward member and thrust it where it belonged. But the anticipation, the inability to do naught by wait, was driving me to the edge.

Ribbons tugged tighter to my wrists, my toes digging into the fur as Cullen balanced me upon his one palm. Even with my breasts nearly eclipsing the view, I watched as he gripped himself. Sure handed, tight without strangling, certain but careful. He held himself the same way he’d brandish his sword.

Maker save me, but I wanted to scream. To feel those hands over every inch of my body. To have him hold me up as he worked himself off. To thrust so deep inside me I’d wake the next morning orgasming.

Slicking his hand once more over his cock, the shaft glistening from the same lavender oil, he rested it right at my entrance. The tip surged, spreading my aroused lips as if having to prepare for what was to come. Grabbing onto my hips, Cullen hefted me up and thrusted once. It was shallow, his knees and my thighs blocking most of the path, but Andraste it was good.

“You have no idea,” he growled, shaking his sweat-drenched hair as if it were a mane. Another thrust bore me out deeper. Maker, I needed him, all of him. Wrapping my hands around the ribbons, I pulled the tether up, bringing my legs with.

Cullen’s thrusts picked up speed, his hips swerving to enrapture every inch inside of me. “No idea,” he muttered, inching ever closer to me across the bear-skin rug. Fingers digging into my spine, he suddenly lifted his knee out from between my thighs. Before I could move, he rammed his thigh against mine, pulling my legs closed tighter.

Pulling me tighter.

“Blessed Maker,” Cullen gulped, his thrusts inching deeper, his body pulling closer to mine. My entire core lit up like an inferno. I strained my head back, shaking my hair while guzzling in air to keep going. To keep clinging to this moment forever.

Suddenly, a hand wrapped around the nape of my neck. Cullen pulled me directly to his face. Eye to eye, breath against breath, hips grinding to hips. Our foreheads crested against one another, both of us grunting to the sounds of the other’s pleasure. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

One more thrust shattered my control. An incoherent cry of joy blasted from my lips into his face as I succumbed to the orgasm’s trembling bliss. Cullen smiled wide at my undoing, his fingers fanning out over the back of my head. He wouldn’t let me look away. Wouldn’t let me miss how he stared deep into my eyes.

Bounding everything of him against everything of me, Cullen cried out, “You. Have. No. Idea.” His hand flung from my head so both would grab my hips. Positioning me higher and higher above his pelvis, he gave one last glorious thrust.

“Maker’s breath!” he cried, his body depleted as he crumbled into his orgasm. That delectable cock kept pulsing within and I gripped back to it as best I could.

Instead of the wild eyes of the hunter, it was the tender gaze of a scholar that turned to me. Cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lips, Cullen whispered as if to himself, “You have no idea what I’d do for you.”

“It’s not such a stupid holiday, after all,” I said.

“Ha,” he laughed once, but under the sarcasm was a trace of sincerity. I meant the ribbons I placed on his body. And I’d have tied more if I’d had time.

Extricating himself from me, Cullen glanced down at his glistening cock. One hand tried to wipe away the sticky mess, while he sighed. “Very well, it’s…it has its advantages.”

I ached to wrap myself around his body, to kiss his lips and lay against his chest. Hear the thrum of his heart against my ear. But I was still stubbornly knotted up in ribbons, and I doubted I could snap them as easily as he did.

“Would you mind…?” I began, jerking my head back, when a shadow passed over the door.

There’d been the occasional dark form, usually from people running across the field, but this one lingered. And spoke. “Inquisitor?”

Shit, it was Josephine.

“Are you available for the relay?”

My eyes swung to Cullen, both of us frazzled beyond belief, smelling of sex, and smiling like slap-happy drunks. I could probably talk her into giving us a few minutes to clean up and…

“No,” Cullen spoke assuredly, his lips sliding in the direction of the door while his eyes remained on me, “I’m afraid she’d tied up at the moment.”

_Maker._

“Ah,” Josephine’s voice shifted to an embarrassing understanding. “I will ask Leliana then. And will speak to you both later.”

We held our breaths until Josephine’s scampering form vanished. “You’re awful,” I sighed, shaking my head and tugging on the bonds.

Cullen’s cocked eyebrow caused me to sit up higher. “It’s true, you are tied up.”

“And you could have cut me out of these bonds,” I said back.

Digging a knuckle into the fur, Cullen walked slowly towards me. Fire flickered in his amber eyes, a rumble rolling in his throat as he deliberately gazed at my immobilized body. “What if I don’t want to?” he asked and dipped his head down to place a kiss right between my breasts. His hands slid back, undoing the tension that kept my wrists bound to my ankles, but the pair remained locked tight to each other.

Able to sit up, I leaned against him, my chest gliding over his. The tail end of his cum sputtered between us, some of it dripping into my belly button. “Depends on what you had in mind,” I said.

Tracing a finger from my ankle up my calf, Cullen’s eyes burned into mine. When he reached the swell of my buttock, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Always.”

 


	39. Cullen and the Cat

_I know Cullen’s always done with a mabari because total dog guy but I was just thinking what if a cat wandered into his office one day and refused to leave?_

* * *

Catching a shadow from the edge of his desk, Cullen rose to investigate. A fat orange tabby glares up at him having slunk in through the door Jim left ajar. It meows once, whether a threat or warning he can’t tell. “You’re not a dragon attacking, I don’t have time for this.” Certain the cat will continue on its way, Cullen returns to work.

* * *

Midway through the afternoon, the cat leaps onto his desk. He lashes his hands out, trying to stopper the ink before it runs black rivers over his maps. The cat mewls once more, the tail batting a challenged at him before it flops onto the edge of his desk. Yellow eyes dare him to move it. At that moment, the scouts arrive requesting his attention in the yard. Cullen waves a single finger of warning at the cat to move before he returns. For its part, the cat yawns.

* * *

While talking with the Inquisitor about the latest troop readiness reports, Cullen bites into a meat pie, hears a pathetic mewl, and palms the rest to the orange tabby at his elbow. The Inquisitor stares in confusion at the grumpy man and the desk cat licking its teeth.

* * *

After a week, when the snows blow bitterly against Skyhold’s walls, Cullen hears a pathetic cry from below his loft. He abandons his warm bed to find the cat circling the ladder and screaming for him. With a sigh, he slides down. Picking the fatter tabby up under his arms, he climbs into his loft. “You can sleep on the…” Before he can finish, the cat leaps into his bed, finding the pillow the best spot to sleep. Growling at the mass of orange hair, Cullen lays down beside the cat, his fingers ruffling through the purring fur.

* * *

Within a month, Cullen paces the grounds inspecting his troops while an orange face meows from within the fur around his shoulders. But if you ask him about the cat, he insists it’ll move on soon. It’s just staying for a night.


	40. Gift, Cullen X Inquisitor

You approach the desk in your quarters to find a box sitting on the desk. Forgetting all the work left for the Inquisitor, you twist the closed wooden box around.

Curious, you crack open the lid to find a folded piece of vellum with your name on the front. Tugging open the note, your fingers skirt across a piece of red silk while reading, "Tonight, I want you to wear this."

A smile imbues your lips, your palm entranced with the satiny neglige. Black lace peeks off the cups at the top, certain to reveal your entire décolletage when worn.

As you pull it out to place it to your chest for fit, a metal clank tumbles inside the box. Peeking inside you spot a second note and a pair of iron shackles. You rip open the note to read, "And I shall wear these. –Cullen."

 


	41. Regency Cullen

These are a few vignettes of the idea of Cullen in Regency trappings.

 

_Cullen would be the misanthropic new Duke bachelor fresh from war, who’s sworn off interacting with the public. Until he has to take care of his young cousin and hires a beautiful governess to educate her and he falls hard for her._

__

* * *

“Duke Rutherford?”

“Hmph, who wishes to…” The bent man leaning over the fireplace rises, his height quickly towering above her. As he turns, his eyes widen, drinking in the tiny woman the steward left standing in the parlor entrance. “Know?” he gulps. Without thought, he takes a step forward, his knee buckling in an instant.

Ungentlemanly curses slip from his lips, his leg crumbling courtesy of the musket bullet lodged under his kneecap. He lashes his hand out for the cane forever at his side, but tender palms scoop around his body, a soft body supporting him. In surprise, Cullen turns his head directly into the sweetest brown eyes a breath from his.

She holds him as if she could support the world, her rose-pink lips parted as if in shock that she’d holding a man she’s just met. “I’m…” a blush crawls across her cheeks, the tiny woman releasing him. As Cullen rises to his feet, the cane where it belongs to assist, she finishes, “I’m Governess Trevelyan.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Cullen says. For the first time in ages, he truly means it.

* * *

Save the weekly inspection of young master Branson’s progress, Gwen sees little of the lord of the manor. She was warned in her placement that he was known to be gruff with no use for frivolity. Labeled a lion of the field during the war, he takes to his unexpected rise to Dukedom by seeming to lock himself away in his office until time for bed.

 

 

For that reason, Gwen thought little of settling into a settee beside the window. The scent of wisterias dangling from below the flower box linger on the spring breeze as she dives deeper into her book. She ignores the first sound, assuming it to be one of the farm animals pacing the grounds outside. At the next, Gwen glances up from her yellowing pages into an amber glare.

“M-m-m,” she leaps to her feet, accidentally hurling the book out the window in the process from surprise. Grabbing the sides of her dress, she dips into a deep curtsy while spitting out, “My Lord.”

“I did not anticipate anyone to be in here,” his voice rumbles in his chest, causing Gwen to wince.

Even with her head turned low, she feels his gaze burning through the cap hiding her hair. “Please forgive the intrusion. Given the lovely turn of weather today I thought to enjoy the warm winds by the garden.”

A snort rolls off his tongue, the imposing man of swords and honor staring towards the outer gardens where his nephew plays. “It is a lovely day.” The cadence of his voice softens measurably from the firing squad drumbeat of his inspections. It surprises Gwen, causing her to glance up from below her lashes.

His stern face, harder than the steel his family’s known for, melts at the splendor of nature. A foolish smile flits about Gwen’s lips until the amber eyes snap to hers. Bowing deeper, she says, “Forgive me. I will leave you to your library.” Head to the floor, she scampers quickly towards the door, her heart thundering in her chest.

As she reaches the rug, praying to escape any wrath from her fumble, Duke Rutherford speaks, “Stay.”

Gwen blinks, certain she heard him wrong. “My Lord?”

He glances at her over his shoulder. “It is a lovely day.” For a beat, those taciturn lips slip upwards in a near-smile. But he shakes it off, the steel deathmask slapping into place. Walking to his desk, he falls to the chair with papers in hand. “You seem quiet enough. I doubt you shall disturb me.”

Curtsying once more, Gwen watches the inscrutable lion fall into his correspondence. He gives no hint to her presence save a half-smile curling up the scar on his lip. Returning to the window, Gwen whispers, “Thank you, my Lord.”

* * *

“Mia.” While under normal circumstances Cullen would be less than thrilled for his meddling sister to arrive unannounced, after the year the family had he embraced her with open arms.

She too was surprised by the outpouring of affections, her eyes crossing back and forth over him. “I am concerned that brigands have absconded with my brother and replaced him.”

“Droll as always,” he sighed, roughing a hand back through his hair. He’d been letting the curls grow, of no mind to face a barber in his state. Besides, it was no challenge to tie his hair back when the winds blew off the seas.

His face fell as he accepted that it was not the ocean at his command but an estate left in his keeping due to the loss of half their family. Mia, a pain, but an astute one, patted his hand. Down the long lane lined with shrubbery came an infectious giggle. Cullen could feel his own lips twitching in tandem at the young boy rushing to meet his favorite aunt.

To his surprise, the governess was hot on Branson’s heels. Her cheeks reddened from the exercise, her hair loosened in a plait that glistened by the strong sun. For a moment, their eyes met, unspoken words exchanged in that glance about the exuberance of the boy left in their charge. Cullen’s stomach flipped at the surprising but not displeasing intimacy.

“Auntie Mi!” Branson shouted launching forward. The governess tried to catch him but she was too slow. In an instant, Branson wrapped his arms around his favorite aunt and she hugged him back. “What did you bring me?”

“Oh,” she laughed, glancing at Cullen, “right to the heart of the matter. You’ll have to wait until after dinner, young man.”

Branson pouted, his face twisted up as if he ate a lemon, but that only caused the pair to laugh more. It was the governess who locked a hand to his shoulders. “Come along, young Master. We have more of your studies to attend to.” While Branson gave into her tactics, Miss Trevelyan curtsied to Mia, “My lady.” Then she turned to Cullen. “My lord.”

It was innocuous and expected, and he could feel Mia’s gaze burning through him in an instant. “What...what brings you here, sister?”

“You, failing to accommodate the season,” she leapt right to the problem without a preamble.

“I’m dressed in linen,” Cullen glanced down at the outfit chosen for him, missing the uniform.

His sister glared. “Every year, the Rutherford estate hosts a ball for the season...”

“Here it is,” he rolled his eyes. “I have no interest in balls, dances, soirees, or anything else of that like.”

“In order to maintain the dignity of our name...” Mia began, getting a growl for her efforts. She sighed and switched tactics. “I know you didn’t want this title, that you planned to turn it over to Branson once father...”

He thought himself so smart, announcing on his 18th birthday that not only would Branson take the title of Duke but how Cullen would joint the royal navy. God made fools of them both in one wrathful smite.

Mia gripped to his forearm. “It is tradition, and, it’s what father would have wanted.”

God save him, but when she used the full might of her begging eyes he could not say no. “Very well,” Cullen sighed. “I assume there are others to handle all the details.”

“If I left them up to you it would be a cask of wine and a jug band by a bonfire,” Mia snickered. That didn’t sound bad to him at all, but she was already spinning her ideas. “Oh,” she paused through her litany of needs for the ball, “and I suspect Caroline will be there.”

Caroline?

“Word is she’s stewing mad for fate making you a Duke after all. Shame she couldn’t wait a few years.”

Caroline. His ex-fiancee. A cannonball landed in Cullen’s gut as he thought back to the woman that could have been. From the fountain perched beside some topiary came a laugh as golden as a nightingale's song. Peering through the branches he spotted the governess with her sleeves rolled up and skirts lifted as she and Branson splashed water at each other. The heartwarming sight melted the shot of metaphorical lead in his gut.

“Ah,” Mia spoke up, shattering his calm, “And you will require an escort.”

* * *

 Gwen paces the garden after dinner, hoping to stretch her legs as she works off the lamb stew. The oppressive summer sun is finally on its descent allowing the blanket of stars to rise over the indigo sky. She glances heavenward, lost in the beauty of the constellations and nearly misses the jangle of boots upon cobbles.

At the last moment, she yanks her chin down as Lord Rutherford appears in the midst of the rose bushes. The floral and wine scent erupts into the air as his arm scrapes across the flowerheads. He skitters back on his boots at the surprise of Gwen standing before him.

“My Lord,” she too gasps in surprise. He never wanders the gardens at night, as far as she knew.

“Governess,” he responds, a hand parting through the mass of curls on his head. “You’re here,” he points out the obvious, then clacks his teeth as if he realized his error.

“Forgive me,” she moves to curtsy, prepared to slink away to her chambers, when he raises a hand.

“No, wait. You should remain, it’s a lovely...” a smile flirts with his lips, drawing her attention to that scar, “It is a lovely night.”

“Indeed so,” Gwen agrees, dropping her skirts. She does not flee but demures back from the Duke.

“We seem to keep winding about such topics,” he says as if needing to talk to anyone who is not family. There certainly are many of them visiting at the estates as of late. “Weather, my nephew, weather again...”

“They are the most pressing matters of the day,” she responds. “For if we did not have weather to speak of, how would people pass time in parlors? Drinking lukewarm tea and listening to a great aunt’s bunion tale? Perish the thought.”

A snicker rolled off his delectable lips, a twin rising upon Gwen’s mouth as well. “I admit,” he says with a sigh, “I was never one for parlors, or salons, or drawing rooms.”

“If I may be blunt, Sir?” Gwen speaks without thought. He nods his head, his amber eyes sizing her up, “It is not a striking surprise.”

The Duke laughs at that, soothing her concerns. She was always too loose with her tongue, which worked well with children, less so the adults who employed her. “I require action, focus. To linger in a drawing room with naught but the weather to speak of is purgatory for my soul.”

“I imagine if you were left to your own devices in a parlor, you’d discover a way to turn the furniture into a trebuchet,” Gwen muses to herself before realizing he could overhear her.

But to her delight, he wrings a hand over his scruff and says, “That is closer to the truth than you might realize.” He leans towards her, the pair walking together through the roses. In a soft voice, he whispers, “When I was a lad, I tried to build a catapult using my mother’s good silverware.”

“Once I turned my great uncle’s humidor into a house for my toad.”

“You kept a toad?”

“Even made him a tiny table to eat his dinners upon,” Gwen smiles at the old memory, less so her uncle exploding for what she did to his good cigars. They made for perfect toad bedding.

He tips lower, his knees bent as he all but whispers in her ear. “You are a breath of cleaning air, Miss Trevelyan.”

“As are...” she turns her gaze from the row of white roses to face him. His lips are quirked to the side, the scar taunting her for a taste. With a slow breath, she whispers, “...you.”

“Duke Rutherford!” a voice shouts from the house. Both parties leap apart, Gwen’s skin prickling as she realizes how close she drew to the man of the house. A man with no wife. The last thing she needs is another scandal upon her head.

“Yes?” the lord turns to the steward baring down on him. “James, what is it?”

“The florist requires your signature,” James hoists out bills of lading while Lord Rutherford pulls into his arms.

“Why do we need a florist?” he growls while barely reading over them.

“For the ball, Sir.”

“My sister’s influence, of course. Very well, I will handle it,” he wafts his hand through the air, dismissing the steward. Gwen turns to face the north, assuming the Lord will return to his office for longer nights at his desk. When she hears a sigh soft as a feather, she glances over her shoulder.

He stands with shoulders slumped, his head tipped up towards the heavens. With amber eyes shut tight, he whispers, “I never wanted this.”

Before Gwen can ask what he means, he returns to his duties as Duke of the manor.

* * *

  _There might be more if I have an idea and my hand stops aching._


	42. Regency Cullen 3

The palm extends towards his, Cullen stumbling to remember the next step. It is his duty to lead -- not only the young lady foisted upon him by a dance card extended out the door, but the entire ball. The estate. His family.

When did his life become upended in this never-ending traumatic squall?

She smiles with gritted teeth, trying to ignore his fumbles. The orchestra plays at half speed in deference to Cullen’s game leg. He can barely scoot from one end to the other, but there is tradition to uphold and he is not allowed to say no. To his bliss, the other dancers shy away, revealing another song finished. He tips his head to her to disentangle, but she demures in a soft voice, “Thank you for this dance, Duke Rutherford.”

“Um, yes, thank you as well, young...lady,” Cullen fumbles shying away from the woman who’s more gel than lady. They were all so young, fresh-faced and barely into the season, and all are placed upon him by his meddling sister.

Before another girl can sweep him away, or the orchestra doom him to his quicksand death, Cullen limps towards Lady Mia. She’s in her usual resplendent gown, speaking to her gaggle of friends that all have titled husbands who are trying to hide on the other side of the ballroom. Her eyes drift to the oncoming storm and she slips a smile on. “Brother.”

“Your Lordship,” echoes from the flock, women curtsying and Cullen ignores it all. 

Grabbing his sister by the arm, he says, “If you will excuse me, I need to confer with my loving sister in private.” As the horde all thank him for the wonderful party, the food filling their bellies, and intrigue blackening their souls, Cullen guides Mia towards the back of the room.

“I dare say for being such short notice, this is going rather swimmingly,” she says, her lips turned into a smile.

“Do not play coy, I know what you’re doing,” Cullen snarls, brandishing a finger at her as if she wasn’t his elder sister.

“Trying to cajole my misanthropic brother to speak with another human being who doesn’t work for him? Yes, I can see why you’d feel the need to drag me from my friends for such a slight.”

“I am...” he thunders before catching the eyes of the other dancers. “I am being nice and social. That is not my concern.”

“What then?”

“The dance card you filled out without my knowledge. It does not pass me by who is on it, every lady young enough to be a ward, and all without attachments.” He played along with the first few dances, but as Cullen kept turning from one nineteen-year-old face to a twenty or even eighteen his stomach dropped. 

Mia sighs, her piled coiff threatening to topple. “Is it so wrong of me to try and find a duchess for the duke?” 

“Yes!” he shouts. His private life is thus, locked tight behind closed doors and never spoken of. Now Mia wishes to yank it before every eye in the county like a pair of dirty underthings. He wouldn’t hear of it.

A hand cups to his arm, trying to calm the stewing in his breast. “Cullen,” Mia’s consoling eyes meet his. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, what you planned in life, but...” She sighs, gazing out over the happy crowd. Soon they’d be gone, the ballroom covered in sheets for the winter. “Don’t you hate how empty the estates are?”

Grief overwhelms him, Cullen taken aback as his mind drudged up the memory of reading the letter. First his father taken by an illness, then his sister-in-law, and finally the brother who should have usurped him. Branson was spared courtesy of a holiday with his favorite aunt. The large family that once had naught but sunny days was quickly cut in half, only shadows lingering where laughter had been. 

“Mi, I understand your thought, but I am...I am not in a place to open my heart to anyone.” 

She stares up at him, the only female influence of clan Rutherford forced to guide not only her household but his as well. “You can’t be alone forever, brother, but I will refrain from my matchmaking for the time being.”

“Thank you.”

Lifting the little book that should be in his hands, not hers, Mia inspects his line of purgatory. “What about one more dance?”

“Mia, my leg is...”

“Trust me, you’ll want to take this one,” his sister says. The music swells, ordering all dancers to their posts. Cullen pulls in a breath, prepared to plead with the young lady to let him walk the plank, when a hand crested in jewels grips to this shoulders.

A face he could never forget swept into his way, her blonde hair forming a halo around her head. “Good evening, my Lord,” she says, dipping her patrician chin. “Shall we?”

“Caroline?” Cullen whispers, giving into the sway of the woman that nearly was his wife.


	43. Regency Cullen 4

“Caroline?” his voice catches in his throat, Cullen stumbling into the steps. Without a second’s pause, she swoops around him, guiding him into place. Just as she always had when they were children.

“Hello Lord Rutherford,” she begins, but he grimaces.

“Please, Cullen.” They place their palms together, Cullen staring down into her face. He remembers far too well the young child of the Earl who would insist he fetch her an apple from the highest branch the tree. Then, when he inevitably fell, cushion his head in her lap.

It was decided she was to be his wife before his tenth birthday, neither child thrilled with the prospect. But as time passed, and the fear of girls faded, Cullen found himself warming to the thought. He certainly didn’t suspect he could do better. She seemed excited about the idea of being a Duchess in her own right.

“Your husband...?” Cullen stutters, glancing away from the shine of her beauty to the older men clogged together in puffs of smoke. One of the more aging ones is the Count that Caroline pledged herself to. A second wife, no less, with stepchildren older than herself. “He does not care that we are dancing?”

Caroline laughs, her chuckle golden and contained. When he was sixteen, he tickled her so she snorted hard and made him swear he’d never reveal that fact to anyone. Cullen kept his world. “Dear Count Worthington cares little what I do, or who I do it with.” She whispers the last half into Cullen’s ear, causing his body to shiver but a bitterness spreads across his tongue at the thought.

She is a social climber. He ignored the accusations of her family in his younger days, having more pressing concerns. But when he renounced his blood-earned title and enlisted, Cullen quickly learned how he should have listened to the rumors. Still, the reminder of days before tragedy blanketed his home brings a lightness to his step.

Glancing up to him through her lashes, she says, “I am sorry about Branson and your father. They were...good men.”

“Yes,” Cullen’s head drops, his chin striking his cravat. _Better than I._  

“I will be in the county for the summer,” Caroline throws off without a thought. As the song fades through the ballroom, she slips her hand from inside of his to grip his waist. “If you need to talk, I’m always there for you, Cullen.”

* * *

Gwen slips into the library, her ears tuned to the muffled natterings of the peerage as they enjoy their dance. After lighting the lone candle upon the desk, she sits in the chair and dips into the ink. While the first three lines fly from her pen, she finds herself stumped upon the next. Her thoughts wander from the pastoral setting in her mind to man who usually resides where she sits. It smells of him, his oil mixture for the hair with a surprisingly fruity concoction curls off the headrest. A cologne of amber wafts from where her arms sit, and deep from the southern regions of her body a musk that speaks of men braving the oceans with naught but their courage by their side.

She sighs at the metaphorical trip her brain takes from a few scents. Foolish to even wonder. He is a Duke, lord of a manor house, tasked with wooing all the lovely women of wealthy and noble families right beyond those doors. The chances of him looking upon her were as high as Merlin emerging from his cave.

Chuckling to herself at such an idea, Gwen dives back into her writing when the knob to the library begins to turn. An amorous couple hoping to avoid public and scandal? She grabs onto her few papers knowing she has no leg to stand on to remain, when golden curls slip inside.

He closes the door quickly behind him, but walks no closer. With his back placed to the wood he tips his head up, eyes closed, and pulls in a cleansing breath. She saw a hint of his regalia for the night, while young Master Branson was put to bed. But so distracted, Gwen drinks in the perfect cut of his coat, navy blues in deference to his past. How the vest of a brocade silver is tailored tighter than most to his stomach, and the cravat already being unfurled by his fingers as if he cannot breathe.

Oh God. She should leave. She shouldn’t be here. He clearly didn’t anticipate...

Amber eyes land upon her, Duke Rutherford realizing that he is not alone. An undignified snort erupts from her nose, Gwen raising a shoulder. To her surprise and relief, he chuckles, his head dropping to his chest. “We meet again.”

“Forgiveness, I...”

“Wanted to enjoy the garden?” he wafts his hand towards the closed window, the blooms waning by summer’s heat.

“I’m afraid the flowers are all sleeping,” Gwen sighs while hefting up the manuscript she should have worked on in her room.

He notices the stack in her arms and asks, “What were you doing? Candlelight is a strain to read by.”

“One that I’d often suffer regardless,” Gwen admits before wincing. His eyes, sharp as a lion’s in the tall grass, won’t leave her arms. “I’m...I’m writing a book. Trying to. It’s nothing important. Frivolous nonsense, but...”

“A,” Duke Rutherford raises his chin, his tongue ticking in thought, “a book? What is it about?”

Strings of the orchestral symphony slither through the cracks in the door, the rugged man’s stern face softened by either the amber flare of candlelight or his childlike curiosity. Gwen, who’d been hiding her book’s creation for years, opens her lips and let’s slip, “Love.”

“Hm,” he snorts, no doubt dismissing the silly subject out of hand. “I’m afraid I don’t have much advice on the subject.”

“It’s all well and good. I only, I...” she’s trapped, the Duke remaining by the door so she cannot flee up to her room and bury her head in her pillow. Who tells a Duke that they’re writing a book about love? Foolish girls with fluff for brains. “I thought with the party you’d be too busy to need your office and...”

“You write here?”

“When I can,” she admits, Lord Rutherford finally moving free of the door towards his desk. Gwen can run for it, but suddenly she’s curious to remain. “I cannot explain why, but it feels as if the shackles of writer's block lift when I sit at the desk. Your desk. Which I shouldn’t do, I...”

He raises a hand, silencing her babble. “If I am not requiring it for all the bills of lading, you are free to make use of it. I’d never thought it a source of creativity before.” Running a finger over the edge, he whispers, “To me, it was a yoke. But it’s nice to know that it can be other things.”

“My Lord?” There’s pain in his voice, buried under protocol and politeness, but she can practically taste it in the air. How his eyes drift across the room, shuddering at edges that aren’t right. The Duke raises his head, his wounded but shielded eyes meeting hers. “Are you well?” Her question bulges in the air, the man seeming to weigh it as if he should tell her, as if she knew a tonic to cure him of clear heartache.

“I could call the Steward?” Gwen throws out, scrambling to find her place.

Rutherford smirks with his scar, shaking his furrowed brow, “No need. May I ask you something though?” He barely pauses for her nod before beginning, “What is it in a woman’s makeup that causes her to obsess about fixing a man? About ensuring that his wishes be ignored and trampled over because she knows best?”

This must be about his sister. The Lord certainly made no bones about his disapproval of the ball, or any of Lady Mia’s other changes. But badmouthing one Rutherford to another seems unwise. “Sir, if I may...we are bred from the nursery to heal, to comfort and help in any way we can. While our strengths may be limited, and our approach seemingly unwanted by those we care for, it comes from a good place.”

His mood lifts as a smile brightens upon his handsome face. Nodding, he says, “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan. You’ve given me a...helpful perspective I had not considered.”

“Always happy to serve, my Lord,” she crosses her legs and dips, her arms too full for a proper curtsy.

Knocking the door handle open with her elbow, Gwen prepares to leave when the Lord speaks once more. “I am glad that you answered the job.”

She glances back, awash in the warm glow across his face. The smile stretches from his lips to his eyes, brightening the room against the darkness. “As am I, Sir.”


	44. Regency Cullen 5

An inhuman groan peels from Cullen’s lips as he lowers his weary body into the steaming water. The old tin tub clangs as his backside sinks to the bottom, more water slopping over the side than he anticipated. Too many days trapped in his office and not enough in the field.

“Sir,” a lone voice calls from the sitting room to his sleeping chambers. “Do you think you will require my assistance?”

Sighing, Cullen tips his head back and says, “No James. I believe I can handle a bath.”

“I’m needed down at the southern wing of the estate, but if you think...”

“For god’s sake, Jim. I’m a grown man. I do not need to be coddled like a babe.” Cullen spits, weary of the constant groveling. He winces at his tone even if the anger feels right.

“Very good, Sir.” Only the sound of the door closing answers after that curt dismissal. No doubt the lower stairs would be gossiping about their brute of a Duke for that one.

Bunching his knees up, Cullen drags his head down below the soapy surface. Just before his face slips under the water, he pulls in a breath to embrace his submersion. The other officers had hazed him something awful when he appeared on deck, green as the algae. A true sailor, a man worthy of the salt, could hold his breath for at least four minutes underwater. Cullen trained his lungs every chance he could, even as he was expected to remain dry on deck. He never could last longer than three minutes before aching for air.

Concussions rattle around him, the explosions dampened by the water swarming around him. His tries to keep his eyes closed, salt already crusting over his lashes, when a hand pushes against his back. Cullen’s eyes open upon a lagoon of blood swirling like wet fog from the mass of bodies tumbling to the sea.

Gasping, he sits up fast in the bath, the jangled memories seeping off his body like nightmares come dawn. Some nights he turns to find it is his brother’s or father’s dismembered hand pressing against his back. Others, it’s the same nameless limb as from the Atlantic. The ghosts will not cease haunting him, the man entrusted to their care, the one who lost the battle but won the war. The dead care little if their sacrifice was warranted.

With both hands, Cullen massages across his temples, trying to worry away the unending cloud. To think, the day had begun rather delightfully. Caroline invited him a bowl on her lawn. He’d adored the game as a child, and often won quite a few tournaments as he aged. At first, it was relaxing to fall back to the familiar, Caroline directing him to the proper manners of the day, guiding him to who mattered and who was on the outs. For a time, he felt all of 17 again, uncertain about this nobility curse placed upon his head, but trusting that he’d somehow figure it out.

Then his knee twisted on a throw, the ball careening so wildly off course it looked more of a cannonball aiming to take out a leg. Cullen kept himself upright; a Duke rolling upon the ground in pain was undignified after all. But the reality crashed hard around him. He wasn’t a spotty youth savoring time in the sun, he was a broken man tricked by fate into the life he tried to run from. All his efforts to try and prove himself beyond the family title and all he got was a game leg and the same yoke as before.

Reaching for the end table, Cullen uncorks one of the medicine bottles. The stench reminds him of horses, not the animal itself, but something in the care needed to keeping them going. He’s not certain what’s in it, only that the doctor’s told him to rub it into his knee every other day for the pain.

Funny, he thinks to himself while loading up his palms and slathering the herbal oil over his knee. If he were a horse, they’d have put him down for such an injury. The musket ball wobbles under his skin as he rubs. It’d been trapped too dip for the doctors to remove before, but somehow in the year hence it moved. He often finds himself pressing against the ball, wringing it through a small pocket under his skin. While there is pain for such a move, it is nominal, and the feel oddly centers him while he sits in dull meetings.

No doubt a doctor would shout him stupid for such a folly, and be right to do it too. He should tend to himself, he is the last remaining head of the household now.

Cullen snarls at the thought and grows tired of the pruning around his fingers and toes. Grabbing both hands to the sides of the tub, he begins to rise -- when a searing pain pierces from his knee down the length of his calf. He crumbles to the water, his backside bounding against the bottom while curling over in agony. Water gurgles into his gaping mouth, but he barely notices, spraying it back out as he crumples deeper to try and wick away the pain.

“James? Hello?” His pride crumbles as Cullen realizes that he cannot escape the bath alone. “Is anyone out there?” Only crickets respond to the Duke’s command. Delightful. How else could he be humiliated today?

“Hello?”

No. No, no, it cannot be...

The door doesn’t open, but he hears her body press tighter to it as she asks, “My Lord, do you require assistance?”

The Governess is the only person near enough to hear him. “No!” he cries, his body blushing at the thought of her having to haul him from the briny depths. Of her delicate fingers swept over his arms, her shoulders providing a crutch below his helpless body.

“As you say,” she says, clearly put off by his dismissal.

“Wait,” he speaks, wounded by his own barbed tongue. Wait how? How can she possibly be of assistance? “I am...I require assistance,” Cullen admits, his face cringing at the thought. “I am trapped in the...bathtub.”

“Oh? Oh...” her eagerness to help slams into a wall as she realizes what that means.

“Perhaps you can fetch the Steward, or another man wandering the halls to...” he begins when the door swings open. On instinct, Cullen pulls his naked body deeper into the tub in order to disguise as much as he can. Lady Trevelyan walks in with her hands extended outward and a handkerchief knotted over her eyes.

When she bumps into a table, she leans to the right and gasps, “Can you guide me towards you? I’m not certain where I’m heading.”

“Forward,” he squeaks realizing that the woman is dead set on helping him. Which means she will have to touch him. The flush burns to a crisp across his entire body, Cullen boiling like a prawn in his own soup. “A little more closer,” his lips fumble as the woman glides into his bedchambers. She may not be able to see anything, but the fact she’s even willing to risk so much to help him is...confounding.

Her fingers slide first against the lip of the tub, then cup the back of his naked shoulder. As she gets a grip on his skin, her touch warm and gentle, she says, “Could you put my hands where you need them?”

The trust is nearly insurmountable, Cullen wondering what she’d do if he turns out to be a cad. But, as he wants to be free of this unending nightmare, he pulls her hand around to the other side of his shoulders. “Dip down, please,” he orders, his own wet hand gripping to her pretty dress. He had never noticed before how well it frames her chest or that the color harmonizes with her deep green eyes mercifully hidden behind her blindfold.

“Lift,” Cullen commands, both of them straining as he puts half of his weight on his undamaged leg, and the rest upon her. But she does not speak a word against it, Miss Trevelyan waiting patiently for her next step. Standing on one leg, Cullen stares out over the floor he must cross. Stepping over the tub requires him to slide her hand lower.

Mother Mary, forgive me for this. Wrapping his hand over the top of hers, Cullen pulls her hands down until it rests at the start of his waist. He pushes her fingers in, trying to tell her that she will have to grip against him no matter how much it might disgust her. But the Governess seems unsurprised. “Ready?” she whispers, and Cullen counts down. Once one is reached, her strength transfers to her arm and the pair haul him clean out of the tub and to the floor.

Quickly, he hobbles towards his bed and the long nightgown he knows can hide his shame. Even as the pair limp together in a childish three-legged race, he feels the flush pooling in his loins and growing more turgid with each step. That is not helping!

At the bed, he lunges free of the Governess, snatching up towels to envelope around his hips. All the while she remains poised, her hands cupped to her stomach as if she didn’t mind having to carry him. Cullen snarls to himself, “Foolish, impotent, having to be helped from the tub as if I am some child or the elderly.”

His fussing freezes when he feels her delicate fingertips glance against his back. They press to the linen he threw across him, but with his body yet wet it sticks tight. “We all have bad days, my Lord. It is not wrong to need help every now and again.”

“I...” he turns to the woman who trudged into his bedchambers even knowing he was without clothing all to help him. If any knew, if any heard of this, she could never escape such a scandal. Yet she didn’t even hesitate. Tipping his head down, Cullen confesses, “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

“Pickles, most likely,” she says with a laugh bringing a smile to him as well. “Do you require anything else?”

“No, no, I’m...good evening, Miss Trevelyan.”

“To you as well,” she says with a bob of her head. Turning on a dime, she exits his bedchambers with her hands extended outward for guidance.

* * *

 

Unable to handle the shame of his bungle, Cullen avoids the Governess and all bodies of water for a day. Exhausted and weary, when he returns to his bedchambers, he’s shocked to find a rope attached to a pully system strung from his ceiling to the side of his empty tub.

“James?” he shouts to the Steward ordered to never leave his side. “What’s this?”

“Ah, Miss Trevelyan’s idea.”

“She put this in?” Cullen marvels tugging on the rope. The pull is clean and sturdy, the wheels oiled to not even whine.

“Yes, she said it was to assist you should you ever need help,” James explains with his back straight. No doubt the servants gossiped like wet hens over their Duke’s latest escapade.

Cullen bends down to inspect the knots on the sandbag to counter his weight. Strong, unbreakable. A sailor’s knot. “Miss Trevelyan, is she...?” he begins, before shaking the foolish thought off. Women weren’t sailors. And James stares in anticipation of a command. Blushing, Cullen finishes, “Thank her for me, and please reimburse her for her work designing this.”

“Of course, my Lord,” James says while bowing to take his leave.

“Miss Trevelyan,” Cullen whispers to himself, “you are an ocean of surprises.”


	45. Regency Cullen 6

“Branson!”

The boy vanishes into a stand of reeds, the soppy sound of squelching mud erupting from the lake’s shore. He’d been under orders to not get his clothing wet, but it is often difficult to get seven-year-olds to listen. Not that their skills improve with age, the men from 17-25 believing their ears too pure to be sullied by suggestions. Somewhere around age 75 or so, they finally begin to pay attention to a woman’s voice, if only so she does not force him to fend for himself for the first time in his life.

Gwen hefts up her skirts, prepared to waterlog her shoes to chastise the boy. The day proved too hot for study, even her eyes wandering off the lesson plans. She thought visiting the lake a delightful way to cool down. Fool she was, forgetting the allure of leaping feet first into muck and mud.

“Young Master,” Gwen calls, shoving aside the reeds. His tiny back is turned to her, Branson squatting in a puddle of soggy grass with a stick in hand. Rather than turn to her, he continues to prod at something in the grass.

“We should really return to the estate,” she says for his attention. “It will be tea soon.” The promise of cakes doesn’t pull the boy from whatever he found. He moves to stab the end of the stick deep into the ground, when he freezes, the gangly limbs steel.

“Dead,” Branson whispers. Gwen stomps into the puddle, prepared to tug the boy back to safety, when she glances down. Right at the edge of his sticks floats a small panfish. Its eyes and scales are white as a shroud, the mouth gaping as it bobs on the water. The boy doesn’t stab into his find, but he bends closer to stare at it. “Everything dies,” he whispers, his usually jovial tone somber.

“Ah,” Gwen calls, watching the orphaned child dip his palms under the dead fish. She’s about to tell him to not touch what could be diseased when wide brown eyes turn to her.

With the half-eaten fish perched in his hand, Branson pleads, “Can we bury it, please?”

Nodding, Gwen takes the dead fish in her own fingers. The odor is so pungent it turns her stomach, but she grits through as the grief-stricken boy stares down at a fact of life so complicated men of God scarcely understand. “Come along. We can bury it in the sand by the shore.”

* * *

 After singing a dirge for a dead fish, Gwen guides Branson back to the house. Her brain churns with discussions she must have with the man of the house, but no idea how to even begin. While she knew she was walking into a manor of grief, she assumed after a year both would have processed their mourning. Clearly, that wasn’t done.

The black cloud hangs over the young man, Branson's head swaying on his weary neck as he trudges up the steps. One of the maids catches sight of his muddy trousers and boots, insisting the boy clean himself before dirtying the rest of the house. Gwen cups his shoulders, her own heart shivering from the grief in his eyes as he bends down to do as told.

At that moment, a measure clop of hooves causes her to look up into the proud Duke perched upon one of his beautiful Arabian mares. It’s now or never. “Head in for tea,” Gwen whispers to Branson who nods dutifully, until she adds, “You can have my cakes as well.” The eyes shine bright at her promise, reminding her that under the titles and grief there is still a child.

As he dashes inside for the promised treat, Gwen hauls off after the Duke. He’s barely moving at a walk, giving her ample opportunity to call for him, “My Lord!”

“Ah,” the Duke barely tugs on the reins, the horse seeming to read his thoughts as both come to a stop. His head swivels to follow Gwen pausing beside the saddle. “Governess?”

“Sir, if I may, I need to speak with you.”

“Continue.”

As the fullness of his attention lands upon her, Gwen realizes that due to his being propped up in the saddle her resting eye-line is directly into his lap. Precisely where a lady should not stare! Craning her head up, the sun blinding her eyes, she gulps. “It’s about Master Branson. I fear that...he seems to be...”

“Is this regarding his lessons? Is he having troubles?”

“No, no,” Gwen shakes her head. “He is a very bright child.”

The Duke smirks, Gwen enthralled at how his palm cups and wrings against hte saddle horn. “He gets that from his mother,” the man says what is clearly a family joke to poke at his brother, before the cracks return. The dead brother, and dead sister-in-law, it is clear that even he yet suffers, never mind the child who lost both parents.

And she would really prefer to have this discussion without a crick in her neck “This may take some time,” Gwen begins, rubbing into the back of her neck.

“I see,” the Duke seems to realize it is not a simple matter. She moves to slide back, expecting him to dismount, when his large hand catches hers. Breath traps in her throat, Gwen staring agog at his gloveless fingers gliding over hers. “Join me?”

“What?” she gasps, her shock causing her to stare directly into his amber eyes. He wasn’t of the same cloth as her previous employers, never outright forbid her for such a slight, but she defaulted to being the demure governess. As the full flames of his bourbon gaze burns through her, she realizes it was done for more than tradition.

Twisting his head outward, Duke Rutherford says, “My horse and I both require exercise, and we can talk on the trail.”

So he wants her to walk along beside his horse. That’s not a problem. Bobbing her head, Gwen says, “Of course...” When he bends down. The hand holding hers pulls her closer to his body as the second hand swoops down over her waist. Before she’s aware what’s happening, she flys through the air at his whims. Her backside lands upon the horse’s directly behind the Duke. Gwen crosses her legs, her body turned to the side to accommodate her skirts. The drumbeat of her heart scatters from the shock of how easily he plucked her from the ground into his arms.

No, not his arms. Onto his horse. Was that less romantic?

“Well situated?” the Duke asks, causing her to nod her head dumbly. “Then you might want to grip tight,” he says while clicking the horse into a trot.

Hold on to what? Her hands fumble for the saddle to keep her body upright when the ebony horse under both increases to a gallop. On instinct, Gwen sweeps her hands around the Duke’s midsection, her cheek burying into the finery on his back. He gives no indication that he minds, and instead spurs the horse on faster to increase her grip.

With the manor fading into the distance, Duke and Governess vanish into the countryside with nary another soul in sight.


	46. Regency Cullen 7

Crisp greens of a cool summer part overhead, the whole of the forest swallowing their horse as they slip deeper into the foliage. In the past months since arriving at the Honnleath estates, Gwen explored the neighboring gardens and the pond with her charge. Never once did she dare think to leap into the tangled forests beyond, but the Duke didn’t bat an eye.

With her cheek pressing into his back, her hand loosens from its grip upon his taut stomach. Then the horse leaps over a downed log, and Gwen digs in even tighter than before. She somehow works her hand under his Lordship’s vest, only a linen shirt keeping her from touching his naked skin. A blush burns over her cheeks at the memory that she knew what his unclothed belt felt of -- warm, pliant, and intoxicating.

“Are you yet behind me?” the Duke asks, his voice light and airy as if he need only escape the looming shadow of the estate to find himself.

“I pray so, otherwise I am uncertain who is responding to you,” Gwen responds, and a chuckle rumbles under her spread palm. How would it feel to touch his chest as he succumbs to laughter from her wit?

“You said that you needed to speak to me,” he prompts, shaking away her foolish thoughts.

“Yes, it is...regarding your nephew,” Gwen begins. She’d trudged over to him without pause, concerned only for her charge. But now, the pair alone in the trees, her nerve crumbles. Not many men are trained in mulling over their emotions, nor turning them productive. It seems doubtful for the Duke to be out of the ordinary.

“What of him?” he continues, his honeyed voice turning sour at her silence.

“I am concerned about him, and his...” she tries to power through her fear, when the horse leaps another stump. Her body flies off the bareback of the steed, Gwen gasping in shock. On instinct, she grips both hands around the Duke’s stomach and buries her entire face into his back. Perhaps it is the cries of fear of her tumbling from the horse, or he’s growing more incensed at her silence, but the rapid trotting slows.

Clicking the horse over a creek, water splashing up her boots and dangling skirts, the Duke says, “Perhaps it would best to speak on solid ground.”

“Yes, yes,” she nods her head against his solid back before leaning away, “if you would so please.”

With an unassailable assurance, his Lordship slows the horse to a standstill, the edges of his heels barely brushing into the ribs. After rubbing along the ebony mane, he raises a foot and slides to the forest floor below. Gwen grabs onto the saddle and the standing horse, prepared to push herself away, when gentlemanly hands envelop her waist. In shock, he falls directly into the amber eyes she now towers over, the Duke graciously guiding her to the ground.

For a brief moment, after leaving the horse and before striking the fallen leaves, she’s in his arms. Nothing to support her gentle fall but his strong body. When she plops into her shoes, she stares entranced up at the man who was only trying to keep her from harming herself. That must be why.

Though, it is harder to explain the palms lingering around her waist, the forelock nearly brushing against the top of her head, and the eyes burning into hers. “Thank you,” Gwen whispers, her body trembling at the nearness of such a man.

The Duke steps away, no doubt remembering her waning position in the world as he adjusts the cuffs of his jacket. “You are...” A hint of a smile warms his lips and he says, “Happy to assist.”

Her stomach tries to bubble in warmth at the sweet sentiment on his sculpted lips, but there are other matters at hand. Placing her palms to her belly to try and calm both the jitters and butterflies, she says, “While Branson is often a happy child, finding play when he can between and sometimes during lessons...”

The Duke sighs, his eyes softly rolling as if he expects as such from his nephew.

“...there are days when he grows morbid.”

“Morbid? By what do you mean?”

The fascination with death, a certainty that all things would die, and an almost embrace of his own. She wouldn’t say he wishes to harm himself, but at his young age, he was dealt a hard blow from life. In one month, those most important to him were all taken by death’s skeletal hand and it left the boy bereft of a lifeboat save the man glaring down at her.

“Do you speak to him of his father and mother?” Gwen is the one who winces, fearing reprisals in an instant. Many houses would often ban the name of those who pass, as much to bury the dead as to hide from their own pain.

To her surprise, the Duke draws his palm over the nape of his neck and digs in. “Not as often as I should. He has questions, so many that I cannot answer. I...I was often abroad during Branson’s life and only met his mother twice before her...” The word stings his tongue, the Duke spitting it out as if he swallowed a bee by mistake.

Pain dogs his every step, the emotional draining him more than the physical. At the estate, he ignores it, only speaking of current affairs. But here, free from the long hand of the title and peerage, he seems to unwind to her.

Forgetting everything she ever learned, Gwen curls her hand around his bicep in comfort, “It is natural to mourn.”

“A year and a half after their funeral?” the man who seems to live for schedules and expectations scoffs.

“Yes. Two years, five, eternity. No one can replace what was lost.”

His Lordship’s fingers curl over the back of hers. Gwen holds her breath, but he presser her tighter to him instead of peeling her off. “How are you so wise for your age?”

Those amber eyes dancing like the flames of candles beside an open window peer deeper into hers. As if he’s divining for her soul. “I’m not as old as I look,” Gwen coughs out for a distraction and Cullen laughs at her answer.

“I’m afraid I am your complete opposite in that regard, older in both wear and time in the mirror,” the young Duke groans as if a few years of heartache aged him a decade. While the wrinkles wear on his face, it is most certainly a handsome build and one to catch any lucky lady’s eye.

Which is not a matter for a Governess to tell her employer. “Regarding your nephew,” she says by way of distraction from her throbbing heart, “perhaps it would help to improve his mood to involve him with peers, other children in play. A day of innocence.”

A smile warm as sunshine rises across the Duke’s dour lips. “An excellent idea. I’m certain Caroline knows of a get-together for the young children in the county.”

Caroline? How informal. Gwen buries her sudden burst of jealousy deep, her face neutral as his Lordship quickly planning how best to go about contacting this woman. After speaking to himself, the Duke glances to her and sheepishness crawls across his cheeks. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

“It’s my job to keep the young Master healthy and that requires happiness.”

A snort tumbles from the Duke’s nose. “I’d never thought of such, but these are the days of his highest joys.” The clouds roll in across his brow as he turns to the horse, “He best enjoy them as long as possible.”

She came to this job having no intentions to speak to the lord of the manner for more than a few moments a day. Dukes were supposed to be geriatric, cruel, and callow, with cold eyes and sharp tongues.

How is her first one the exact opposite? Dangerously handsome, tender in his actions, aloof and uncertain with society functions, but kind when one-on-one? “I should thank you in person for your pulley system,” the confounding man says, reminding her how for a brief moment she was in the same room as his naked body. She saw nothing but his sweet musk permeated her palms and the side of her dress for the entire night. “I should not have avoided it for over a fortnight.”

Scratching her cheek, Gwen admits, “It could be considered scandalous if the wrong ears hear of it. I fully understand pretending none of it happened.”

His lips open wide as if he’s about to disagree as if her moment of ingenuity is worth remembering or recording. But he closes and nods to her, “Understood. And I should return back to the estate before my knee cramps up and you are forced to carry me.”

The Duke guides his horse around, Gwen waiting for him to lift himself into the saddle when he extends a hand to her. At her quizzical look, he asks, “May I?”

With a smile and nod, she places her palms against his shoulders as those strong hands once against pluck her up at the waist. This time she savors in the freedom of flight at the strength of the man far, far above her in station. But, on the trip back, Gwen nuzzles her cheek to his back and lets herself fantasize about what could be.


	47. Regency Cullen 8

Despite the grey clouds blotting out the sky, the unending giggles warm Cullen’s burred heart. He watches from his vantage beside the other titled men as Branson chases after one of Caroline’s youngest. The boy clearly has something unholy on a stick, which he seems hellbent on jabbing at the girl in skirts. But an angel in green sweeps up from the side, snatching away the dangerous stick before there can be any tears.

The Governess gives an order to Branson, no doubt instructions on how girls don’t enjoy being smothered in mud. Cullen thinks back to her shoes and ankles caked in red-brown mud from his sudden trot to the creek. He didn’t realize the folly of his mistake until they were on the path, the man of action unusued to the hand-tying rules he should have grown up with. Though, it was a treat to feel her cheek pressing to her back, and her hands coyly curled around his stomach.

“Duke of Honnleath,” a voice oozes from the refreshment table, and Cullen’s heart sinks along with his eyes.

Outfitted in a scandalous scarlet frock coat, the gold vest unbuttoned and unadorned with a proper ascot to reveal a shock of chest hair, stands Master Tethras. Merchant by trade, and rumormonger for fun, the man who’s pride revolves around knowing the comings and goings of every member of the peerage snatches up a cucumber sandwich and waves it at Cullen.

“Never thought I’d see the newest Duke at such a gathering,” Varric says while chomping down upon the finger food.

Cullen folds his hands, his chin rising while his eyes strain to keep the short man in focus. “The birthday party may be a small affair, but that does not deter me.”

“Oh no, we’re all surprised that you left your dark tower and throne of bones by the fire to rattle around with such mortals. There’s talk that you even have a wife of yours living in the attic at that massive estate.”

Snarling, Cullen rolls his eyes, “Do not be ridiculous. I’m not married.”

Master Tethras raises a glass of wine at the news, “And you just breathed life into an entire generation of maidens who were facing a rather dull season. Congratulations.”

Fully scowling from his eyebrows down to the whitening hair on his chest, Cullen whips away from the pretend merchant to gaze across the lawn. While the children are enjoying their freedom, many stripping off constricting jackets and knots to play, the young mothers keep glancing in his direction. And even worse are the ones without children, their eyes seeming to strip him to his bones with every breath.

“Oh dear, what’s brought that sour puss out to view?” Caroline dances through the herd of onlookers as if she floats on air. The Countess curls a hand around Cullen’s arm, guiding him in a dance without music.

When he glances to the cause of his dour mood, Caroline laughs. “Do not let Master Tethras strike at you. Everyone knows he only peddles in japes and jests.”

“Indeed, Madam. For the truth is nothing but a joke to those with bricks for brains.”

Cullen bristles at the obvious jab, but Caroline shakes it off. While he was dodging cannons and musket balls, she was sharpening her teeth on polite sneers, and complimentary denigrations. With a shake of her golden hair, Caroline guides the grumbling Duke away from the flock.

He struggles against his cane, his leg seizing up worse. Glancing to the clouds darkening with the hour, Cullen sighs. “I fear there will be rain soon.”

“Is that why you’re in the mood you are? I don’t remember you despising storms so when we were children.”

“That was before I knew what one at sea was,” Cullen whispers to himself, his shoulders hardening as he girds himself. Memories lap against his calm exterior, trying to rip apart the bricks he put in place.

A warm cheek brushes against his arm, Cullen glancing down into bright blue eyes. All the years between them fade at the smile rising upon her cheeks. “Well, you’re more than welcome to remain for the night should the storm turn dangerous. We could even sit up the whole night in our fortification of pillows and blankets.”

He laughs at the old antics the children with no one else to play with got up to. “I’m afraid I might be too big to hide under the bed now.”

“Hmmm,” Caroline mutters, her eyes deliberately drinking in his strapping shoulders, down his waist, and clearly pausing at his loins. The blatancy of her hunger causes his heart to beat rapidly, when he remembers she is a married woman and not his. Cullen shifts, trying to put his hip in place as he gazes out over the lawn.

The children tire of their game and lay out on the grass, hands gesturing to the clouds while they probably spin exciting fairy stories for each other. Branson sits up, hands gripping to his knees but he’s listening intently and even speaking with the other children. The flush on his cheeks and bright movements warm Cullen’s heart.

“Thank you for this, Caroline. I pray this is just what he needed.”

Sweeping in beside him, her hand sliding between Cullen’s arm and chest, she locks their arms together. “I’m here for you, Cullen. No matter what you need.” Her bright eyes dart up from under her lashes, but Cullen gazes away, watching the woman in a green dress chasing a butterfly for the children.

As a smile rises on his lips, thunder strikes overhead.


	48. Regency Cullen 9

 

Rain sleets against the windows, Cullen left with the other male refugees as the thunder continues to batter past the afternoon into the night. While some of the party guests took their leave as the first drops fell, others remained. And now they are all trapped together in the drawing-room eyeing up the Count’s brandy.

Despite his age, the Count is a spry man, his hair more snow than pepper, with a long mustache curled at the ends twitching with every sip. Cullen had to bite his lip to keep from slipping and calling the Count “Old Man.” Doubtful the landlubber would appreciate the term, even if it is meant with no offense.

Another thunderclap rattles the roof, all the heads clouded in smoke tipping up to watch the candelabra’s flames tremble in the storm. “A good thing we retired to indoors,” the Count chuffs to the rest, most his close friends, before the milky eyes drift over to the Duke in residence. “And how is his newest Lordship handling a storm on land?”

“Easier than if at sea,” Cullen admits, “less need to tie someone to the mast.”

“Give it a few more drinks, and I suspect Master Blackwall here will require such medicine,” Tethras crowed, to the delight of all save Master Blackwall.

The chill creeping over the floor twists about Cullen’s calves, his knee once again cramping from the pressure of the storm. Weary from the long ride and even knowing he will not sleep well, he rises to his feet. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe I shall retire.”

A few bow their heads, others narrow their eyes at the early-to-bed Duke. The Count moves to rise as if the elder man must stand in deference to the younger, but Cullen waves his hand. “Did my wife show you where your shall bed for the night?” he asks seriously.

Cullen shakes his head, “No.”

“Surprising,” the Count muses to himself before whipping out, “The guest quarters are the third door on the left up the stairs. I trust you can find them on your own.”

Bowing his head while tasting venom in the air, Cullen turns towards the door. On his escape, he hears Master Tethras begin to spin another yarn. “Word is that Honnleath’s estates are draining coin faster than...”

The words fade with the door shut, those men free to drink themselves into a stupor and wake in their waistcoats the next morn. Cullen had enough of that in his younger days where people judged you less on the deck of a ship. And he only really drank to forget twice -- once when learning from his sister of Caroline’s marriage, and then the news of his brother. He’d been on the road when the death of his father hit him, the new Duke of Honnleath officially bestowed such a title while he vomited in a ditch. That was unlikely to make it into the family’s annals or history or upon a crest.

Shaking off the dour thoughts no doubt turning his flesh a discomforting yellow, Cullen slips into the guest quarters. The room is lavish, unsurprising for a guest with ties to royalty, and darkened even with a fire struggling to catch courtesy of the winds whipping down the chimney. Cullen begins to unbutton his vest, his coat slipping off his shoulders, when a shadow moves off the bed.

Light strikes a candle illuminating a pile of gold hair. As she places the candle next to the bed, Caroline stands to her full height. And she is nearly naked!

In naught but a pale chemise cut at the knee, Caroline glides one leg before the other, drawing Cullen’s eyes to the shapely and fully nude bottom half. “What are you...?” he sputters, partially trapped by the panic and also yes the lust he thought buried at sea all those years hence.

Caroline’s warm fingers curl over his arm, her lips parted as she whispers, “Cullen, I’ve missed you. Tell me you missed me.”

He shudders at the old game she played when they were children, his would-be fiancé always demanding that he tell her he missed her. And he did. Often. Caroline was a source of calm in his turbulent life, until he castoff every thread of the world she wanted to be in. Still...

Her lovely face bobs an inch from him, her arms gliding from his arms, over his shoulders, and behind his neck. Cullen gulps, falling into her crystal blue eyes as he leans forward. The kiss is the same as when they were young adults, Caroline insisting her future husband needed to know how to share affection properly. It took him ages to get it right, Caroline instructing on the proper amount of pressure, speed, and -- eventually -- tongue.

As she opens her lips to his, Cullen’s dead hand wrapping around her cheek, he’s instantly transported back. No wounds from battle, no scars and callouses from the sea, no title and lands strapped to his back. They’re barely on the cusp of adulthood, ditched their chaperones at Caroline’s insistence, and discovered each other beside the seashore.

The kiss fades, Cullen’s buzzing lips confessing, “I missed you.”

“Then,” she picks up his left hand in hers, placing it first to her lips, then around her barely clothes waist, “have me.”

At first, he trails her the step towards the bed, his mind cradled in the fluff of the past. Then pain jars up his wounded leg, reminding him of who he is and more importantly, who she is.

“Caroline, stop!” Cullen gasps, his legs locked in place. “We can’t do this. You can’t do this.”

“Why?” her voice is soft and tender, as if she’s trying to calm a dog scared of the storm.

“You’re married. You, you belong to someone else.”

That causes her to frown, her hand dropping off of him. “And I was nearly married to you. I almost belonged to you. Imagine it so, we are man and wife for a night, free to finally share our marital bed as it should be.”

He trembles, the intimacy of the room lit only by the fireplace and strike of lightning, playing a tune against his libido. It has been some time since Cullen dared seek any to share his bed. He thought with his title it would be years longer until his rakish side would emerge.

Is this what you want, Cullen? To take another man’s wife in the dead of night like some craven scallywag and sit at his breakfast table the next morning pretending nothing happened?

“Stop,” he pleads, his voice bleating like the lost lamb he knows himself to be. Caroline does pause a moment, but tugs on his fingers again. “This isn’t right!”

She scoffs, a hand placed to her nearly naked hip. “If you are worried about the man of the house, he hardly cares what I do as he has his own excursions to town.”

A valid excuse, God knew Cullen heard enough rumors of who was keeping which mistress and where while growing up. But another thought stings deep in his soul. With wounded eyes, he gazes at the beautiful woman who abandoned him to the sea. “Is this how you would have treated me had we married?”

“Cullen!” she gasps, but the doubt is already spoiling the mood.

He turns away to glare at the door. “I will leave you to dress...alone. Please, exit my room for the evening Countess Geffry.”

Caroline’s gasp at her official title sounds as if he punched her in the stomach, but Cullen shies away from comforting her. That is her husband’s duty now, not his. With a heavy sigh, he pulls open the door and retreats to the hallway.

The pacing, wreaking havoc on his knee, does little to quell the rising venom in his blood. How dare she ambush him so? How could she put him such a position unannounced while he is still mourning his father? Should be mourning his father and brother. Cullen knows he buried himself in the estate’s minor matters to avoid all that pesky acknowledging his pain. It seemed more proper than falling apart alone in his rooms.

He turns a corner in the winding halls and spies a sprig of green amongst the desolate greys of the manor. Governess Trevelyan cups a candle in her hand, the other pressed to the glass pane as she stares out across the horizon. Cullen clomps closer, but she does not turn at his labored sounds.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning strikes close to the countryside, causing the dear lady to leap back. Cullen’s hands lash out to catch her, the cane tumbling to the floor. Her face whips over her shoulder, shock etched across those verdant eyes. “Milord,” she mutters, moving to curtsy but Cullen still has his hands placed to her back.

Realizing his error, he snakes them back and stares down at the fallen cane. Bending to retrieve it will be a nightmare, so he settles on leaning against the wall beside the window. “What are you doing awake? Branson...?”

“Is sleeping like a little lamb,” she assures him. “I’m afraid I do not handle thunder as well as a boy.”

He gazes out across the bleak landscape streaked with bolts of white-hot light indeterminantly. “I hate it as well,” Cullen admits. He never cared much when younger, but a year at sea and...

Gwen whispers in a stricken voice, “I need to see the horizon whenever I hear a thunderclap.”

“Me too,” he says, turning to this woman he knows next to nothing about. Aside from her ability to tie sailor knots and despising lightning. And her kindness, generosity, ability to read people, care for his nephew, a bright spirit that shines brighter than any he’s ever met. Other than that, nothing at all.

“Forgive me, your Lordship. I should return to my room in the attic and try to sleep,” she turns from him as if embarrassed. As Cullen glances down from her enchanting eyes he realizes that she is dressed for bed. No wonder.

Before she leaves him to brood out the window, she bends down to retrieve his cane and presses it in his fingers. He lets the bare edge of his pinkie skirt against hers, Gwen’s cheeks pinking as she gazes down.

“Good evening, my Lord,” she says, skirting away with a sliver of candlelight to follow her.

Cullen watches her instead of the haphazard lightning outside, her light steady and firm even if it is dim. All it needs is a little fuel and care to grow brighter. “To you as well, my lady,” he whispers to himself.


	49. Regency Cullen 10

A crackle of lightning reveals his refuge in this deluge. Amongst the pitch black clouds and rain pounding against his body, Cullen spots a rickety old barn. The same one where he gave Caroline his first ever kiss all those years ago. Scrabbling in the mud, his boots sinking to his ankles, he moves to pull on the door.

“Cullen...” her voice echoes all around him.

He whips his head around, calling, “Caroline,” in fear she’s trapped outside in this storm same as him.

“Cullen...” the voice sings from inside the barn. Smart. She always was the smartest of their group.

Tugging on the handle, Cullen hefts the wheeled door open and steps out of the storm and mud into a world of hay. It clings to his filthy boots, his eyes skipping about the looming shadows above. By the darkened skies and sudden shafts of lightning, the beams take on a sinister air. Instead of the familiar barn, it feels of the gallows, where many a deserter hanged by his neck until he was dead. Another thunderstrike highlights a rope dangling off a beam, the end coiled up as if it’s a noose waiting for its next victim.

“Caroline?” he places a hand to his mouth calling for her, a shudder wracking his body.

“In here,” she calls, sounding no worse from the wear. She seems almost delighted by the unexpected turn of weather which forced the pair into the barn together.

Cullen turns around a stall and stumbles into a nest of crates. Piles and piles of wooden boxes rise up towards the dark ceiling in a confounding maze. It feels less like a barn and more the belly of a...of a ship.

The moment the memory strikes him, he catches movement. A finger strikes a match, the tiny flame placed to a candle. Cullen holds his breath when a spring green dress rises from the darkness.

“Gwen?” he whispers, confounded by the woman left shivering in the barn alone. Her deep green eyes widen, the candle perched before her flickering in the winds.

As he steps closer, the light aiding his path, Cullen glances at the dress. Rains suckered it to her body, brown sections of skin rising from below the satiny depths as the poor woman shivers.

“God, you must be freezing,” Cullen begins, tugging off his coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. He fingers the lapel, the piping belonging to a naval man’s uniform, not a Duke’s.

Her sweet face tips up to his, a smile blooming across her lips and into his heart. Raindrops glisten across her cheeks, Cullen transfixed by the light dancing over her glowing skin. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Without pause, Cullen sweeps his hands around her jaw, tips her head back and plunges for a kiss. Heat fills his belly, her succulent lips pursing and folding to his. She raises her arms, his jacket scattering to the wooden planks as Gwen wraps her hands around his back.

Their tongues taste of the other, this verdant woman baring notes of summer clover and apples baked in the sun. How tenderly she presses her lips to his sends Cullen’s heart soaring. His thumbs glide over her cheeks, removing every trace of rain from her skin as he dives deeper and deeper into her mouth.

Her scintillating body presses to his, Cullen’s shirt sopping as her wet breasts glide across him. He aches to rip his clothing off, to touch her, taste her, know her in the nude. But duty lingers in his mind, even with his lips upon hers, even with his hips bounding into hers with a wild hunger.

It is Gwen who draws off his belt, who unbuttons the fly of his trousers. Cullen’s hands yank at the hem of her dress, lifting it higher and higher as she leaps back onto a crate. Bent over her, her skirts resting in her naked lap, Cullen sweeps his body between her thighs. They cup around him, cling to him, need him, want him.

As he approaches the crate, a folded knuckle pressing into the wood, his forehead grazes Gwen’s. The heat of a woman cries its siren song for his manhood, not even a thrust away. But he gasps down at her, a shiver of the grave crawling up his spine. Her tender fingers draw up her cheeks, tugging on the scruff of a wild man of the sea. As both palms cup against his face, she whispers, “Take me.”

“Good morning, Sir.”

Sweet Lord!

Cullen bolts upright, his head screaming in confusion as the dark, lusty barn gives way to a chipper dawn. Wincing, he glares at his steward, already preparing the basin for his daily shave. Because he is the Duke of Honnleath now.

And that...that was all a dream. A dream that boiled his blood with a want he thought expunged ages back. Was it all Caroline’s doing? Did her temptation revive it? If so then why did he wish to...to...?

“James?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Cullen tries to clamp down on the rock hard erection springing between his thighs. “May I have a few minutes alone?” To try and corral my shame back into its stall.

* * *

The countryside rattles by, Cullen with cane in hand glaring out the west window. It was a frosty breakfast for the Duke doing his best to not glance at the woman who pressed her advances upon him awake, or the woman he pressed upon in his dreams. Whether Gwen is aware of his sudden bitter turn is difficult to surmise. She seems in good sorts despite the weather, cross-stitch laying across her lap as she embroiders a clipper crossing the ocean waves.

He should have known it was a dream from the start. A cocktail of heady emotions and past memories bubbling to a peak from the storm outside. For starters, his leg didn’t bother him once while the ability of him to sweep a woman off her feet and attempt to...

That is not a thought to be trailing to fruition.

“Look, a cow!” the reason for this trip pipes up from the east window, his nose pressed to the door as he stares across the verdant fields.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Branson?” Cullen asks.

Eyes the same color as his brother’s turn back to him, the boy’s exuberant face fading at the dour uncle speaking to him. “Yes, Sir.”

It was how Cullen spoke to his father, how the servants treated him. He despised it. Leaning forward, Cullen roughed a hand over the boy’s hair, causing Branson to laugh. He hears a shared quiet chuckle from the Governess, her cheeks ripening as if she’s pleased. The dream’s tendrils refuse to leave his body, her scent and taste suckered to his soul.

Cullen leans back, focusing on the window to avoid her.

“Can we come back?” Branson pipes up, wide eyes staring from the Duke to his teacher.

“I will...” Cullen gulps, trying to steady the rush of blood through his desiccating veins, “We’ll have to see.”


	50. Regency Cullen 11

 

“Good afternoon,” Gwen calls to the gardener. He swipes back his hat, eyes narrowing in the harsh sunlight. “I was wondering if you had a wide bucket I could borrow?”

“Going to wash up?” the man asks, his eyes drifting down her body. The wind is soft, perspiration building in the high heat, but at least she needn’t worry about her dress clinging to her form without a care for decency.

“It’s for Lord Branson,” Gwen explains while bobbing on her toes, watching as the gardener pulls a wooden barrel from the shed. It’s over three feet wide and two deep, causing the Governess to struggle to hold it in her smaller arms. “He’s been folding paper ships all day and I want to teach him how to make them watertight.”

“How’s that?” the gardener asks, the man more than happy to chew the fat in the shade.

A smile warms Gwen’s lips as she thinks back to her younger days. “Dip the bottom in wax and it seals it up as good as any Clipper.”

“Huh,” the gardener says, a shovel clanking in his hands as he turns to his tools. “We never did that. Would drip hot wax on my brother’s stomachs while someone held him down, but...”

Gwen’s pleasant eye wanders across the verdant lawn of the estate. A man dressed in a tattered tunic and trousers stands beside one of the other buildings on the grounds. He leans upon a stack of crates, most of his face hidden in the shadows. But as she hears that hell-deep gravely laugh, a face with stringy black hair, pocked cheeks, and red-rimmed beady eyes snaps into her memory.

The gardener’s nostalgia over torturing his brother fades as Gwen stomps across the lawn. Her hands drop the bucket, her heart catching in her throat as the man nods to one of the many hands working the estates. It is him.

“Samson.”

His smirk reveals teeth yellowed from cheap tobacco, the stench of fish and decay wafting over her. “Well, ain’t this a thing and a half to find.”

She whips her head around, making note of the many servants drifting around the grounds. Most are hiding from the sun, but it is best to keep careful. Knotting a fist around Samson’s tunic, Gwen hauls the taller man into a stand of bushes, vanishing them from any peeping eyes.

“What are you doing here?” she snarls, her grip tightening even as he raises his hands in adjudication.

“Funny, was about to ask you the same, Lil Pup.”

Her eyes flare, Gwen’s sweet demeanor crackling to reveal bared teeth, “That is my name no longer.”

“Heard that bit, least some of it. What was you going by now?”

“Never you mind,” she opens her clenched fist, letting Samson the bandy-legged man of ill-means stumble back. He never falls for long, the man with more lives than a cat.

Samson rubs the mottled whiskers on his cheek, saltier than she remembers, his reddened eyes trying to pierce through her. “So you got yourself a cushy job in a Duke’s lap--”

The dagger is at Samson’s throat before he can blink, Gwen’s fist knotting up the balding hair to trap him. He coughs once and mutters, “Forgot about your little sting.”

“Why are you here?” Gwen repeats, her voice steelier than her blade.

Slowly, the eternal-drunkards eyes roll up to hers and he cracks a smile. “Same as you, got a job to do.”

Bullshit. Samson dealt in only crooked work, not even close to skirting past the law. No chance of a man of the Duke’s caliber suffering someone such as that in his employ. But, what did she really know of him? So he has kind eyes, a shy smile, and cares for his nephew? What in that speaks of a man who will not take the easiest coin on the table?

Shaking her thoughts off, Gwen glares into Samson’s eyes. “You will not speak of me to anyone here.”

“What? Not even--”

She draws the blade closer, Samson gasping at the prick. “Fine, fine, my lips are sealed before you cut ‘em off and wear ‘em as a necklace.”

It isn’t a guarantee by any means, drink or coin certain to loosen those lips, but it’s all she can hope for. Gwen releases her hold, her dagger slipping to the sheath hidden in her boot.

Samson massages his neck, mostly for show as she barely nicked him. His skin shows more damage from a drunkard’s hands attempting a shave. “I hate your family’s greetings. Not a hug or a drink for an old friend, just straight to daggers and blood every time.”

Narrowing her eyes, Gwen snarls, “That is not my life. Not anymore.”

After peering out of the shrubbery, Samson takes a single step towards freedom. When Gwen doesn’t lash out, he risks another. There are no parting words, no goodbyes. They don’t deal in those. Before he exists back to his dark deeds, Samson asks, “Oh, want me to tell your brother you said hello?”

Gwen answers with a sneer and a draw of her blade.


	51. Regency Cullen 12

The lonely Duke stands inside his gloomy study, gazes across the world out the window. While inside is naught but dour tones and long shadows, beyond his forced asylum are verdant colors lit from above by the golden halo of summer.

He cannot hear the laugh, but he sees it in her cheeks blooming red from the splash of water. In how her body trembles, arms slapping at the bucket to spray back at the boy who’s quickly sinking his fleet in play. In an instant, both are drenched, water erupting from the emptying bucket.

Her laugh doesn’t pause for a moment, the smile contagious as Gwen tucks her fallen hair behind her ear. Cullen places a hand to the glass, his palm warming from the joy beyond his reach.

“Milord?”

Guilt burns up his stomach, Cullen adjusting the hem of his vest despite knowing he did nothing untoward. Still, it is a snappish tone that commands of James, “What is it?”

“You have a visitor.”

“Very well,” Cullen waves a hand in acknowledgment. No doubt one of the bankers or other sorts forever hounding his steps. God save him if it’s a politician yet again insisting upon the holding’s assistance for an election.

The Steward waves in a man, Cullen turning to watch. He wears a cleaned but ragged topcoat, the brocade of the vest fading from the sun, and a top hat is clutched in the hands calloused from years of working the rope.

A smile burns across Cullen’s face as he meets those striking green eyes many ladies droned on about. “Lieutenant Barris!” he cries, crossing in three steps to the man -- his game leg be damned.

“Sir.”

Even with the hat in the way, Delrin sweeps his arms around his old Commander in a warm hug. Cullen can smell the sea upon his jacket and a pang strikes his heart for the waves he left behind. After giving another welcoming pat to Delrin’s shoulder, Cullen says, “Now, none of that. I gave up my commission. Why didn’t James take that?”

He scoops up the wayward tophat and wanders back towards his desk. After perching it upon a bust of Amphitrite, he leans upon the always busy top to focus his full attention upon his guest. “It’s so wonderful to see you again. I’d hardly have expected you to brave the English countryside.” Cullen’s musings at the familiar friend turn dour and he glances at the man, “Do not tell me you’ve been put in drydock as well.”

“No, no,” Barris lights up, crossing closer. Cullen waves towards the divan beside the window and his friend perches on the edge. “This is merely shore leave. We’ll be setting out for Norway soon.”

Open ocean waters, naught but gulls and men to judge him. The smell of salt, crisp winds through the fjords, and pickled fish of every manner. Cullen’s rosy memory turned sour a moment and he nodded to himself. No doubt Lt Barris picked the least appealing option for the forced into retirement Captain.

“How are you keeping? The ship’s...?”

“In good condition. We had to re-tar her after some run in with smugglers, Sir,” Barris says without thought, then grimaces. “Or should I call you my Lord?”

“I’d prefer Cullen if it’s all the same,” he shudders at the massive line of titles stretching across his soul. Even he cannot remember them all in one go.

“That will,” Delrin coughs, a hand rubbing into the back of his neck, “take some time. Captain?”

“Also acceptable,” Cullen gives him. “What brings you to my door?”

The proud smile falters, Delrin twisting his fingers in his hands. Most days Cullen doesn’t miss the calluses ground into his pads and palms from pulling the sails day in and say out. Most days.

Barris lifts his head and his eyes are awash in tears, “I am in love.”

A strange thing to announce to his old Captain but exciting nonetheless.

“But I cannot afford her dowry,” his neck gives out, the courageous sailor crumping at his flailing finances.

Cullen draws his cane from the canister by the desk, walking himself closer to the man clawing at his knees. Perched upon the armrest, he asks, “What is she like?”

“She is...” Barris’ eyes burn like the northern lights, his smile widening with every word, “Enchanting. More beautiful than a rose. Sweet as sugarcane. Her voice is that of an angel. And when Belle walks into a room I want to fall at her feet and beg her to be mine.”

Oh, that man is smitten by cupid’s arrow no doubt. He’s practically singing himself about this woman as if she’s his Madonna and saint in a diaphanous gown. Cullen pinches his lips in thought. “Belle? A mademoiselle?” At Barris’ pursed lips, Cullen chuckles, “I’m certain that a dashing English sailor come to sweep her off her feet does not make her father happy.”

“No, Sir. Captain, he is...he says he will bless the marriage, provided I can prove I will keep her in the life she deserves. I want nothing more than to make her happy all her days.”

Cullen cannot stop the laugh to himself as he rises to sit at his desk. Tugging on the top drawer, he pulls out the chequebook while asking, “And how much does it take to persuade this Marquis’ heart?”

“A hundred pounds would more than suffice,” Barris explains while sitting up rod straight. “I have a nest egg of my own to dip into...”

If he came to his captain for help, Barris must be in dire straights indeed. He was never one on deck gambling his minor stipend, rarely into drink, and believed in the cause. Cullen opens the long slips, his pen dipping into the ink, when he pauses. The order of the bills seems off. He hasn’t written any in a few days, but he could swear this should be number 80.

Ah, perhaps his old age is creeping in. Cullen shakes off the momentary confusion and fills out a promissory note to Lieutenant Delrin Barris. After drying the ink and cutting it free from the stack, he rises to the man yet mooning over his lady love. It is a wonder hearts don’t swirl around his head.

“Here you are,” he presents the money, “but I do not want to hear word one about repayment. Understood?”

“Captain, it...” Barris begins, before he eyes up the amount to find that his Lordship added another zero at the end. “A thousand pounds! I cannot accept,” Delrin tries to force the paper back at him, but Cullen won’t hear of it.

“It is my wedding present to you and the soon to be Mrs. Barris,” he insists, his smile straining his cheeks. He hadn’t stretched them so in weeks.

“My lord,” Delrin winces, relief and joy sweeping across his face, “Cullen.” He cups the man’s hand in his, shaking it vigorously, “Thank you. Thank you, a thousand times. I do not know what I would have done without...”

“Think nothing of it. It’s nice to see young love still in the world.”

Barris is careful to store the note in his purse, his eyes reading across it as he no doubt envisions his coming wedding night. A dark string pulls through Cullen’s gut and he glances to the stack of letters from Countess Caroline inquiring when he and Branson will be returning.

“What of you, Captain?” Barris asks, distracting Cullen from his glare at the desk.

“I don’t think I require a small loan from you, Lieutenant,” Cullen cracks.

Barris brushes a hand across his lengthening locks and laughs, “No, marriage. A wife. A better half to make you whole. Are you not interested in the institution?”

Breath catches in Cullen’s throat, his eyes drifting not to the letters of a reminder of what he could have had, but to the window. She’s rising to pick the nearly emptied barrel from the lawn, her hair plucked mercilessly from its plait, and a warm hand curled around a smiling Branson. Water soaks to her dress, but the beautiful woman is naught but smiles as his mind jolts back to the dream Gwen in a barn. It hasn’t repeated through the night yet, but Cullen would be lying to himself if he says he didn’t wish it to.

“I have enough to keep me busy already,” he shakes off the thought to Barris, unable to voice his cavalcade of emotions.

“That’s what a lady of the house is best for, balancing your problems.”

“I suspect my suggesting the idea of marriage would only increase them tenfold,” Cullen admits, even as his wounded and weary heart toys with the idea. It holds fast to the dream of him and Gwen alone on a small ship of their own with no one but the waves and gulls to watch.

“Now,” Cullen slides down beside his friend on the divan, “unless you are required at your lady’s side this very moment, why don’t you tell me how the rest of the crew fairs?”


	52. Regency Cullen 13

Cullen chewed upon Delrin’s words as the man dashed away for his own wedding. It is a foolish thought. Marriage. He need not bother, Branson already slotted to take up the title after him. The only reason would be for his own selfish needs.

Wants.

“James?” he calls, straightening up from gazing out the window. There is no woman in green darting through the hedges with his nephew in tow, but his heart smiles at the wisteria dangling near. Is it the flowers he smells or her perfume?

“Yes, Sir?” James ducks his head in, slowly closing the door behind while pacing into Cullen’s study.

“How does one go about...proposing marriage?” Cullen asks. When he receives no instant answer, he turns from the window to find a flabbergasted Steward.

“Mi-milord?” James stutters as if this is some failing travesty upon the Rutherford line. His fate was decided for him when he was still chasing frogs in the garden. He had no say in starting the wheels, much less any idea how to begin such a proposition.

“For,” Cullen’s internal organs burn hot, the shame of what he was asking finally taking hold. “For a purely speculative question.”

“Ah, well, most would first approach the young lady’s families to learn of her prospects. Charming the father is key.”

Cullen frowns. He’d never inquired once about her father, or any other man in her life. What if she is already affianced? Hard to believe a man would let a woman such as her from his side for a week never mind long enough to become a...

“However,” James continues, “if this is a more localized question, given your blood ties to the noble house you would first need to--”

“Do not say it,” Cullen groans in the midst of James dooming him.

“--to petition the crown for rights to marry.”

Wonderful. His hand plasters to the glass pane, eyes screwed tight to try and avoid such a possibility. “What of what you said before? Asking her father and the like?” Cullen clings to any chance to slip past where this line of questioning is leading him.

“I would suggest, if his Lordship is of the mind to proceed, to first speak with him even before the young lady. There is a chance,” for a brief moment James eyes flicker out to the garden and Cullen’s sly questioning falls apart at the knowing look in his help’s eye. “They may not allow such a pairing.”

Cullen purses his lips in a grimace masquerading as a smile. Doomed before even beginning -- the tale of his life. “I see.”

“Shall I establish a meeting with his Lordship?” the Steward asks.

He could claim this is all a mental exercise. A curiosity to pique Cullen’s interest on these hot summer days. Walk back from the foolish idea that he could ever bother to marry.

“Please do.”

* * *

 

The mad King is laid up in his death bed, his first son ruling in his stead. That puts both far beyond the reach of even a Duke. So it is to not the Prince Regent but the second son Cullen must appeal.

While the eldest son is known for being brash of action, slow to accept advice, and possessing a flight of fancy that keeps the House of Lords flustered like a hen house, the youngest is another matter entirely.

“Move a bit closer. Closer,” Prince Alistair stands beside a line of perfectly fine targets, bow in hand. He waves at the man with a top hat perched upon his head, and an apple adoring said hat. Lifting the bow into position, he aims a non-barbed arrow. In an instant, the pedigreed man begins to tremble.

“Stop squirming already. It’ll be fine. See.” He taps the tip, trying to emphasize its lack of a head. Much like the man could soon be should his Lordship miss.

“One,” he extends the bow outward, drawing the string back. “Two.” Before he can reach three, the poor living target cringing inward, the arrow flies through the air. To everyone’s relief, it pierces dead center through the apple. The fruit tumbles back off the hat and the man forced to entertain the prince falls to his knees, grateful to live another day.

“Told you I could hit it. You owe me ten quid,” he jerks his head to another man, Earl of somewhere. Casting a look over at the gentleman who’d provided the stand, the Prince sighs, “Don’t carry on so, Rendon. You seemed to think it so easy even a servant could do it.”

Prince Alistair roughs his fingers through the mass of red-blonde hair duskier by the summer suns. He begins first over the high swept head hair, then begins to comb apart the mass of unsightly fur prodding off his sideburns and sweeping down the cheeks. The man is clearly proud of the slab of hair that leaves him appearing like a right pillock in every manner of painting and high society function.

“What did we have next in my duties?” he turns to his butler, a bald man who no doubt began his tour with a full head of thick hair. “Ooh,” he perks up, his head twisting to follow a trail of hounds preparing for a hunt. “Who’s a cute puppy?” The prince reaches out to pet the first dog, but his butler shakes him off.

“Sir, they must be focused for their hunt. You will only distract him.”

“If I have a penny every time someone accused me of distracting them,” the Prince muses to himself, “I could finally put in that proper cheese cellar.” After elbowing the weary butler five times, he turns to the man who approached with literal hat in hand.

“My Lord,” Cullen bows, well remembering the etiquette forced upon him as a child. The one he thought he ran from.

“If it isn’t...isn’t...”

“His Lordship, Duke of Honnleath,” the butler whispers in his ear.

“I know!” Alistair waves his hand at the man and without a by-your-leave snatches at Cullen’s arm, pulling the pair away from the gawking public. “Been a few years since last we saw each other.”

It was only for a few weeks, when the King or perhaps the Prince Regent worrying his brother might be trouble attempted to get the man into the navy. They barely pulled out of port before the Prince turned sea-green and never returned to normal. Cullen was the one to order him off the boats immediately. They didn’t need a landlubber clinging to the gunwale with a tender stomach in the heat of battle.

“Heard about your father, I’m...I’m sorry,” the Prince whispers, causing Cullen to stare in surprise.

“My brother as well,” Cullen tacks on, every interaction he has with people forever clouded in loss going on 18 months old.

“Right,” Alistair winces, “Hence the whole,” he waves a hand down Cullen’s body as if the man is wearing a Duke Uniform. “How are the Honnleath estates? Drafty was how I remembered them.”

“They are fine, Milord.”

“With tiny battlements on that old tower near the swamp and...oh those pies! The ones with the gravy that, I am no good at names, but you must know of who I speak.”

“Sir,” Cullen groans, well aware that his Lordships flights of fancy can impede any conversation. “I would like to petition the crown with a request.”

“Of course,” the Prince smiles wide, “anything for the child of our great-grandmother. Or is it the grandson of our second great-aunt? Whichever.”

In truth, Cullen memorized even less of the peerage than the Prince, but he still bristles at the haphazard thought. “I require the King’s blessing for marriage.”

“Oh ho!” In an instant, the lackadaisical but professional Prince turns into a braying tavern oaf. He elbows Cullen in the side, laughing, “Gotten yourself a lovely bit of ankle out there already? And she’s demanding you make it all official so she can call herself a Dutchess on her hankies?”

Cullen closes his eyes so his lordship cannot see the roll of them. “As you say.”

“Well,” Alistair pats a finger to his lips in thought, “what are you plans about the lineage and that nephew of your brothers?”

“Branson will retain heritage rights to the title. It is...the least I can do for my brother and sister-in-law.”

“First, make sure your lady friend knows that because woo-boy, if they get all surprised that their little ankle-biters are out of the will it’s poison this, burying the bodies in the bog that. Huge mess.”

The sneer is all Cullen can muster. There might be other women who would try to harm Branson to put their own children in the line, but it is clear how much Gwen adores him. She would never.

The Prince watches Cullen, clearly hoping for a more dramatic reaction. When he receives none, he continues, “Then, I see no problem with letting you marry whoever. Titles might get all mashed up, hope she’s not really set on being a Duchess after all. But...”

He, he has given permission? Without pause? The entire carriage ride to the Prince’s summer house Cullen anticipated a hard rejection. That the crown would find problems with his interest in a Governess, or that someone higher up the chain already had plans for the bachelor Duke left to them. For the first time in his life, Cullen is free to choose the woman to stand at his side without having to escape to the sea to do so.

“Thank you,” he grips the Prince’s warm hand, shaking it thricely while giving his gratitude once more. The man shrugs, his mind already on other matters as he calls for his sword and anyone daring to take him on.

Cullen walks away, knowing better than to test the limits of royalty’s patience. So he can marry Gwen if he so wishes. There is nothing stopping him from proposing to her in the gardens. God, how does one even begin such a task? What if she says no? What if she is already destined for another? What if she does not want him?

“Oh,” the Prince calls, his hands wrapped around an old claymore that he swings without pause, “but she has to have at least some blue blood in her. Don’t want you marrying a washerwoman or anything like that lest Orlais think us uncivilized.” He turns from Cullen to the servant in padding, “Come on and hit me!”

Nobility. She must be of noble birth or else. The color drains from Cullen’s cheeks as he stalks back to his carriage. James leans down from the driver’s seat, instructed to always let Cullen open his own doors. “How did it go, Sir?”

“I have no idea,” he admits while climbing inside.


	53. Regency Cullen 14

“...and if I take 1/4th from a half, what is left?”

Gwen sits upon her knees before the tiny desk watching Branson struggle to piece together the problem. He scowls at the answer just within reach, his usually jubilant face taking an instant turn into his grace’s. It is rather hilarious to find upon a seven-year-old, the sneer upon the thirty-year-old, however, causes her knees to tremble and heart to flip.

The door to their private tutoring room opens, Gwen barely glancing from the boy attempting to double the fraction before subtracting. She presumes it to be the chef with the boy’s afternoon snack, her voice rising in an attempt to ask it to be placed on the table, when she spots the same familial sneer.

“Your...” she launches to her feet, “your lordship.”

The Duke tips his head once to her, his eyes sweeping over the boy chewing on the end of the pen that looks as if a rat’s gone at it. “How is your day Branson?”

“Fractions are bollocks!” the exhausted boy spits, bringing a flush of shame to the Governess who should be keeping him in check.

“We,” she dances in a square, her feet scrambling for footing, “we’ve been working on mathematics. But I’m afraid he’s not a fan.”

The Duke snickers, “As is true of all Rutherfords. Ah, Miss Trevelyan, I was wondering if I could speak with. In the gardens. If you have a moment.” Where before his commands were cool and crips, these cut off and floundered in circles, like a dog searching for the sunbeam to nap in.

Gwen bobs her head. “I think so. Branson could certainly use the break.”

After giving the boy leave to play, Branson with kite under wing as he leaps ahead of the adults, Gwen walks beside the Duke whose shuffling slower than usual. Does he not want to have this conversation? Is she in more trouble for the rising curses from his nephew? She tried to train them out, but a year of grief and running wild alongside whoever visited the estates left him with a low-brow vocabulary. She didn’t think it was hurting anyone, plenty of time for him to learn proper speech as he aged.

But now...

Rather than the streams of wisteria or the bushy roses, it’s to the fountain where the Duke leads her. A lion with a mane of real gold stands in the center. Water should be spurting from its roaring jaws, but only a dribble manages out on this summer day.

His lordship comes to a standstill beside the trickling fountain, the cane hooked under his hand. He begins to reach a hand out for the water the way a young boy would, but pauses and shakes off the thought. “It is a...nice day?” he begins, calming at least some of Gwen’s fears. If he were truly angry at her work, he’d open with more vim. What does he want?

“Indeed, though I for one am quite looking forward to fall’s cooler embrace. This summer has been...” Her eyes drift across the man’s stark jaw, his amber eyes shaking from the lion to hers, and those sculpted lips with the tantalizing scar, “very hot.”

The Duke smiles at her confession -- though she prays he does not catch her double entendre -- and wrings a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes, candles across a stormy sea, burn into hers. For a flicker, they drift lower, canvassing her lower neckline and the frills curling across her bosom. That cursed summer heat increases ten-fold in her belly, Gwen having to turn away first.

“Was the weather what you wished to discuss with me?” she asks, fearing the dreams her carnal side could create after too much time with his grace in the garden.

“No,” he admits, a snort trailing his confession. “I...” he glances at her, and the smile falters. His Lordship fiddles so with his cane, it begins to rise up in his hands, the iron cap bouncing into his stomach in thoughts he traps inside. The worry in him, the clear anxiety wafting from his pores, causes Gwen to place a comforting hand to his chest.

“Do you have any prospects?” he blurts out so suddenly, Gwen stumbles a step, her hand falling from him.

“Prospects as in...” Was he going to fire her? Did they find a better suited Governor for Branson? Most hated the idea of a woman teaching a future heir after a certain age.

The Duke gulps deep, his eyes softening along with his voice, “Are you affianced?”

Oh. “No,” she shakes her head, turning away as a blush burns on her cheeks. They assured her that wouldn’t be a problem on this job.

He nods hard at that fact as if itis what he wants to hear. “Your family?” he suddenly pivots and a gulf opens in Gwen’s chest.

He knows. Samson told him. Or one of the others at the various parties. Or her brother. It would be like him to try and dictate her life once again.

“Yes?” Gwen speaks in a calm tone while her insides scream.

“Are any of them of noble blood?”

Noble blood. What is he on about? “My mother’s father is a Lord,” Gwen says slowly, her eyes drifting around the silent gardens. Is Samson out there waiting? Or has the port authority finally come for her?

To her confusion, a great smile rises across the Duke’s face. He bends his legs as if he feared them locking up prior. “Wonderful. That’s...that should be enough.”

“Enough what?” Gwen asks slowly, wishing she already mapped out an escape route. She thought herself finally safe.

“Miss Trevelyan,” the Duke reaches out to grip her fingers in his and she stills. He has to feel her heartbeat through their crossed palms, it’s plundering in her ears. “I would like to court you.”

“What?” she gasps, her eyes bulging as she tries to follow this logic. “But you’re...you’re--” A handsome, wealthy, kind-hearted man -- perhaps the nicest she’s ever met. Why would someone like that want anything to do with her?

“The title, yes,” he swallows and she jabs a finger at him as if that was what she meant. A Duke and a governess? That’s absurd.

He swallows both her hands in his, pulling her palms to brush against his chest as those amber eyes plead in hers. “The crown has given me permission to court whomever I so choose.”

_And you picked me?  
_

A giggle escapes from Gwen’s lips, disbelief and the rise in her ego competing with her fragile emotions. Her. He wants her? He cannot be serious...

He’s always serious. Fanning her fingers out across his coat, growing more aware of the strong build below, Gwen says, “The nobility would allow such a thing?”

“Provided you are of noble blood, yes. No doubt they’d have to check, because they love nothing more than cramming their noses where they don’t belong. But I don’t see a problem...”

Check. Meaning delving into her family’s history. Where the money came from. Who she truly is. Run, Gwen. Forget this job. Forget this...this insane man who thinks he can just sweep a silly Governess off her feet.

Forget the soft touches as he guided her on and off his horse. The lingering stares across candlelit rooms as her smile brought one to his. The encouragement for her book and delight in her wit. Forget him.

“Do you...?” the Duke gulps, his eyes peering deeper into hers, “Do you want to be courted...by me?”

He’ll learn the truth. You’ll lose. But he’s so handsome. It will destroy everything you’ve fought for. And he touches her head in a way no man ever has. Perhaps none ever will.

The agony of choice thunders through Gwen’s brain while he stands before her with his heart in his hand. She needs time. Time to think. To find a way to explain that as much as she cares for him, it isn’t wise for a man of his stature to elevate someone so low. So worthless.

Gwen tips over, her legs giving way as she fakes a dead faint. Cullen's arms scoop around her, holding her tight as he calls her name, but she keeps her eyes tight. While he runs off for help she can form a plan.

To her shock, the man with a wounded leg, lifts her and begins to carry her to the house all while calling for assistance. She shouldn’t be putting so much pressure on him, wake back up with an answer to save him the pain, but it is nice to be in his arms at least one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pleased to announce that my novel Pride & Pancakes will be published by Totally Bound on December 17th!
> 
> When Beth Cho is tasked with interviewing elusive musician Tristan Harty, it’s hate at first sight. Despite his sapphire eyes and lithe frame, he’s got to be the most infuriating man on the planet.
> 
> Tristan Harty is already sick of reporters and this one is proving no different. Sure, she might be adorable with her ebony hair and big brown eyes. But her incessant need to dig into his past is dragging on his last nerve.
> 
> The bickering duo vow never to meet again, but Mother Nature has other plans for them, trapping them in a Vermont cabin via a blizzard. The more Beth learns about the aristocratic Tristan, the harder it is for her to keep her professional distance, just as Tristan discovers a familiar heart beating in the beautiful reporter’s heart. But what happens when the snowstorm’s over, and the melted Tristan and enamored Beth are free to leave? Can their reluctant attraction bloom into a deeper love with the thaw of their judgmental ice. Pride & Pancakes is a sweet yet steamy contemporary story inspired by Pride & Prejudice.


	54. Regency Cullen 15

He places her limp body upon the settee, Cullen’s heart in his throat as her hand falls to her breast. Picking the pallid fingers up in his, he tries to rub life back in them.

“Sir?” James finally answers the shouts Cullen left ringing from the door to his office. It holds the nearest resting place he could think of.

Cupping his hand over hers and peering over her fluttering eyelids, Cullen orders, “Fetch the salts. Or a doctor, anything to...”

Slowly, the lush lashes crack open an inch. A sliver of emerald green beams up at him and a prayer escapes as a gasp from him.

When she fell in the garden, he feared his proposal caused her to suffer a stroke. Placing the back of his hand to her forehead, Cullen begs, “Are you all right?”

Gwen moves to sit up, Cullen curling his palm around her back to help her rise. After glancing around at the surroundings, she pivots her face to his and a flush rises on her cheeks. “Yes,” she whispers, her features turning coy.

“Thank the heavens,” Cullen cries loudly, turning his head over his shoulder to shout for James. “We no longer require the salts, though the doctor might...”

“No,” her slender fingers curl over his cheek and in an instant Cullen is hypnotized. The tiny tips dance through his scruff, brushing the prickly hairs down as she barely pivots his eyes back to her. “I meant, what you asked in the garden. The answer is yes.”

“Really?” he gulps, the rapid thundering in his chest turning to a surprising joy.

Gwen extends her graceful neck, Cullen’s eyes drawn to the deep hollow at the base. A thrill courses through him to place his lips to it, to taste her decolletage and unwind the green ribbon hugging below her bosom. But, as she draws her finger across her plush lips, the nail scratching a soft pink line through the soft brown, his plans change.

Unaware of the lecher hiding inside the noble, Gwen laughs, “Yes, truly. I would be most... _amenable_ to your courting.”

“Amenable?” Cullen laughs himself, “Is that one of the vocabulary words you’re teaching Branson?”

Her smile lights up his heart and she leans closer, her fingers curling around the back of his jaw. With breath barely passing her lips, she says, “He’s far too young to learn the word for what I’m truly thinking.”

Cullen’s breath sputters from his lips, his face swiveling directly into the full glory of her green eyes. He can smell the perfumes cleansed across her body, a hint of jasmine and rose water rising from her neck. Darting his tongue over his lips, he tastes the spark of air between them, his mind filling with the wonders of what a touch of her lips would do to his.

“Sir, I have...” James announces.

Twisting away, Cullen staggers to his feet and instantly regrets it as pain shoots up his knee. With the beautiful woman about to...no, she wasn’t. That’s unseemly even for a man courting her. Especially for a man courting her. They require a chaperone, he needs a chaperone.

By God, does he need a chaperone.

After glaring at the Steward for the unwanted, but necessary, interruption, Cullen arranges his leg to lessen the pain. James is already digging into the desk for his medicine, and a snifter of brandy to properly dull the pain. As the old sea dog stumbles around trying to hide his broken state, the poor woman who fainted dead away rises to her feet.

The tension percolates as Cullen downs his pills and drink all while James remains standing behind the desk as a reminder of propriety. Gwen’s bright eyes drift to the man, but remain focused upon Cullen. His hand rises, aching to wrap her small body in his arms, but he restrains himself.

“My Lord,” she begins, and he frowns. Will they have to retain such titles even in the midst of a courtship? Why does he not know these things. “I admit I don’t have much experience by way of courting.”

Welcome to the club.

“...but, I please ask that I remain with Master Branson as his Governess. After the year he’s had another upheaval without warning could be detrimental.”

A Duke is asking her to potentially become his wife, and her first concern is for his nephew. Warmth wraps around Cullen’s heart even as bitterness drips down his throat for his failure to take into account Branson’s feelings. “I would like nothing more,” he says.

The smile across her sweet lips is worth his fumble, Gwen curtsying deep. Her eyes remain closed until she reaches the lowest dip. For a breath those emeralds dart up through her lashes, pinning the breath in Cullen’s throat. “If you will excuse me, your Grace. I should return to the Young Master before he decides all of his maths are worthless.”

Cullen snickers at the idea and gifts her a wave. “What about after supper? When Branson is being put to bed?”

She turns at the door, her eyebrow raising as if to ask, ‘So soon?’ Is his eagerness a drawback? But the smile curls over her lips and she dips down, “I cannot wait.”

Cullen’s heart soars as the door closes, leaving him with the now lingering question of what one does when courting a woman. James coughs once and points to the mound of work he’s been ignoring for a week in his pursuit of a Governess with eyes as green as jade and a heart bigger than the ocean.

* * *

“I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking. This is...” Cullen tries to flee from his own bathtub, but James places a steadying hand to his panicking shoulders.

“You will be fine, Sir,” he assures while running a line of foam over Cullen’s cheeks. The glint of the razor causes Cullen to clench his toes, but James is careful and quick.

He barely picked at dinner, forced to listen to the vicar and mayor droning on about their menial problems while his ears honed to the woman at the end of the table. She sat beside Branson, insisting he finish all his peas before his pudding. Not once did she look up, her face cool and collected for what is to come. Meanwhile, his Grace was a bumbling mess as he ran to his rooms to freshen up.

Still is a bumbling mess. His chin dips, the razor slicing closer and Cullen holds his breath.

“What makes me think I know how to court a woman? My courting days were spent at sea, romancing sharks and drunken sailors forced to sleep in the lifeboats. No, no,” he shakes his head, pulling back from James’ trust blade. White foam lingers on his lip and his neck, but Cullen dips into the water, washing it away. The hairs can remain where they began same as his heart.

“Sir,” James chides as Cullen rises from the tub. He ignores the hand proffered to him and grabs the rope instead. It’s become such second nature, he barely notices until the loud fall of the sandbag as he puts his weight back in his worthless legs.

Rubbing a towel over his scarred body, Cullen shakes his head at the entire idea. Courting at his age. A young lady. How foolish could he be?

“Your Grace, if you please,” the Steward oversteps his boundaries and grips to Cullen’s naked arm. He glares at the touch, but James sighs, “do you not enjoy this woman’s company?”

“Well, yes.” He wouldn’t have walked down this path if he didn’t.

“Do you not find her pleasing to look at?”

The blush chars over his naked body, Cullen wrapping the towel over his hips in the event the thought of Gwen should bring expected consequences. He does not answer the question, but his glare increases upon the sudden forward man.

“And she has wholeheartedly agreed to this?” James continues.

“I would not be in this position if she didn’t.”

“My Lord, I would say it’s rather clear that Miss Trevelyan cares for you.” The Steward who’s asking for a boot points to the rope and tackle system she made for him.

With a wry smile, Cullen tugs on the rope, hefting the ingenious sandbag higher and he thinks of her kind fingers nailing every bit of it up. “What do I say to her?” he gulps to James.

The Steward smiles, already extracting the navy frock coat and silver vest from the wardrobe. “Be yourself, your Grace. And if that fails, speak of the weather.”

 _God_ , Cullen prayed while slipping on his trousers, _give me the strength to see this to the end._


	55. Regency Cullen 16

He finds her in the gardens, her legs demurred to the side as she sits upon the stone bench beside a low line of shrubbery. The sides of her bonnet hide away her warm cheeks as she thumbs through a book, but he’s taken in by her nose and the profile of a smile curling up her glistening lips.

He can’t do this.

Before Cullen can take a step to flee for the sea, Gwen glances up from her book and the smile deepens. Cullen sweeps the top hat off his head at the lady’s presence. His long curly hair knotted back by a single ribbon of navy blue, trembles in the breeze. There’s a chill creeping off the ocean that Cullen cursed for three weeks. Now, it blows the scent of jasmine and the brush of her curled ebony hair towards him.

Gwen wraps a hand to her head, holding the bonnet in place as she smiles, “Good evening.”

“To you as well, my Lady,” he smiles at the beautiful woman waiting for him. Slowly, her eyes dart to the other addition to their meeting whom James found for him. “Mrs. Wynne,” Cullen bobs his head to the widow with a pile of needlecraft in her lap. She faces away from the pair on the other side of the shrubbery, but her hard eyes drift over the stumbling man clinging to his cane for life.

“Aren’t you rather old to require a chaperone?” she sniffs, clearly unimpressed with his need to stick to the rules.

“I assure you, I have no intentions to...” Cullen begins, but Mrs. Wynne waves him off.

“Do as you like. As long as I have daylight, I don’t mind.” And with that, she resumes her embroidery, her yellowed teeth chewing a piece of thread in half.

Cullen walks towards the lovely woman seated before him and asks, “May I?” The smile and nod warm his heart and he eases onto the bench beside her. If he were in his study or in a parlor surrounded by men, Cullen would lean back, stretch his leg out for comfort, and groan. But he’s on edge, his back straighter than a mast as he fumbles with his hat.

“My lady...” he begins, the small talk fading as she swivels to him.

A single eyebrow perks up, Gwen asking, “My lord?”

“Your family,” he gasps out, clinging to the first in five topics James insist he broach. It is clear in an instant that he choose poorly, as Gwen shifts away to stare at the garden.

“What of them?”

“Do you...” Cullen shifts on his seat, wishing he hadn’t worn the pinching cravat for this. “Do you write to them often?”

“No,” her bonnet shakes in a hard negative and a sigh raises her shoulders. “My mother died when I was a child, and my father passed a few years back.”

Oh. And he pulled that from her on their first meeting. Stupid! “I’m so sorry for...” For bumbling into a traumatic topic without recourse. In castigating himself, Cullen’s tongue runs away with him. “So that must be why you’re a governess instead.”

Her green eyes narrow, her head swiveling fast to his, “Instead of what?”

“Married,” he tries to wave a hand around to emphasize this entire charade. A single snort comes from their silent chaperone, but her head’s bent down into the needlework as if she’s paying no heed to his crashing.

Gwen stretches her neck, her body twisting further from his. “My father never would have allowed such a thing. He’d have lost too great an asset.”

For her kindness? Her wit? Possibly her cooking skills, not that a future Duchess would be required to know as such. And there you go putting the cart five leagues before the horse.

Silence falls between them, the awkward kind that feels of sandpaper rubbed over your body. Gwen stares straight ahead while Cullen routinely fumbles with his hat. How did this go so wrong so quickly? It was a calm breeze to speak to her when she was the Governess, when propriety and expectations didn’t weigh upon his tongue like a lead weight.

“The weather is...nice,” Cullen gulps, unable to find any topic to cling to.

He fears she’ll rise, ask to retire after this disaster then avoid him entirely. But Gwen chuckles, her shoulders shaking before she turns her bright green eyes upon him. “You are truly out of your depth.”

It is not a question, but Cullen responds with a groaning, “Yes.”

“You need not be so formal. I dare say there are few things more personal in this world than courting.” Her hand, that’d been clinging to the book as if it was her life preserver, cupped his knee. It was barely a brush, but Cullen’s cheeks lit up at the contact.

“There are protocols, in place. As much for your benefit as mine. I do not wish to bereave you of what you deserve.”

The smile increases to the power of summer’s dawn. “My reputation can survive a man forgetting his titles and being himself for an eve.”

He is being an idiot. Cullen pulls in a breath, trying to steady the fluttering in his chest as he plucks hard at the cravat. Next time, he skips that.

Next time?

Gwen frowns softly, her eyes drifting to the knee she’s cupping. She doesn’t pull her hand away in surprise, but asks, “How is it feeling?”

“There’s always pain,” he admits, “though the twinge down my calf tells me another storm is brewing.”

“My...performance earlier couldn’t have helped it. I’m sorry.”

She sounds truly heart-broken that he was forced to hold her in his arms. If he hadn’t been fretting about her turning ill, Cullen would have enjoyed it. Scooting closer, his cheek brushing against the frills of her bonnet, he says, “I would gladly carry you wherever you wish to be, bum knee be damned.”

“I will,” her beguiling eyes drift down his chest, “remember that. You’re incredibly dashing in that outfit.”

It was all James’ idea, pulling nearly the same from the ball, save a change in pin. This one is emerald, as green as her eyes. “Your dress is...” Cullen lets his eyes drift from her cheeks down the peek of a bosom above the silk clinging desperately to her skin. “Enchanting,” he finishes.

“Really?” Gwen glances down and snickers, “It’s the same I had on before. I only own two.”

“Perhaps it is less the silk and ribbons and more the woman inside that brings out its beauty,” his voice is husky, needy, his body scooting ever closer to her. Their legs touch, her fingers playing with the emerald pin as a smile flirts over her lips.

“Now I am curious how handsome you would appear both in your regalia and...” Gwen leans closer, her hot breath drifting through his ear as she breathes, “out.”

God, she is a treasure beyond counting. He curls his thumb under her chin, his fingers finding comfort along her jaw. Cullen is about to tip her lips to his, when a cough breaks out from behind them.

The Chaperone.

Gwen rolls her eyes but demures back while the Duke who should know better, tries to think of a blotted sailor left bleached on the deck to cool his blood. The awkwardness returns but this isn’t caused by his foolish tongue. No, it’s two people casting hungry glances at the other, then turning away before being caught. He should be asking her more, getting to know her.

But then he does know her. She is a writer, she cares for children, she hides from politics as much as he. She fits perfectly behind him on a horse, and she can create ingenious inventions to save him from embarrassment.

A movement catches Cullen’s eye and he watches Gwen tug her bonnet off. She fluffs at her hair, four giant curls circled by the rest. Suddenly, she calls, “Oh no, the wind!” as her bonnet goes skittering into the bushes.

Cullen frowns, certain she threw it, as Gwen leaps to her feet to chase after deeper into the shadows area. He pats his hands to his knees, uncertain what to do, when Gwen calls out, “Your Grace? Could you perhaps help me retrieve my hat? It’s beyond my reach.”

“Of course,” he responds, placing his own on the bench. With cane in hand, he limps after her. The setting sun’s rays vanish to cool shadows as he passes under the trees and stretching bushes.

Cullen is about to call for Gwen, when he spies her standing in a small alcove behind the bushes -- her bonnet in her hands. “But I...?” he stutters, pointing at the supposed wayward thing.

Her smile turns devious as she steps closer, her body leaning towards him as she stares upward. Cullen’s tongue stills, the accusation fading to nothing at the perfect emeralds beaming up at him. As his palm cups her cheek, he understands her ruse, Gwen’s eyelids fluttering shut.

Cullen pulls in a deep breath as if he’s about to leap underwater, and bends down. Her lips' heat washes over him, swaddling him as he tastes the tender kiss of this beguiling woman. It is far better than his dream, his hands knowing what she feels like as her body relaxes into his. His lips knowing that she pulses the center of her lips in a kiss. His tongue learning that she tastes of elderberries and nutmeg.

The hunger rising in his belly orders him to dive deeper into her, his tongue flitting over her lips. But that’s unseemly. It isn’t right...

Gwen’s arms curl around him, her breasts crushing to his chest as she parts her lips and her tongue playfully touches the tip of his. Swooping his arm around her back, Cullen hoists her higher into the air, his tongue and hers twirling to match the heat rising in his blood. And, as she presses to his body, his loins stir, aching for that dream to finally come to fruition.

“Ahem!” the old lady’s voice coughs from the bench. “Have you finished finding your bonnet?”

She slithers from his grip, Gwen’s eyes rolling up to his and a shrug in her shoulders. “Yes, Mrs. Wynne,” Gwen calls.

“Then don’t you think you should leave the bushes before you get pricked?”

A char burns up Cullen’s cheeks at the admonishment, his head shaking at a thirty-year-old man hiding in the bushes to kiss a girl. Gwen begins to exit, skirts in hand, when he grabs her arm. Before she can slip past him, he bends her back, her body cradled in his arms, as he takes one last perfect kiss from her lips.

Her cheeks burn bright at that, her eyes flaring deep into his for his impetuous move. But the smile on her lips tells him all he needs to know. After Cullen lifts her back to her feet, his expression neutral as if he didn’t just do that, he whispers, “Thank you for losing your bonnet.”


	56. Regency Cullen 17

For nearly two weeks, after ensuring Master Branson was on his way to bed, Gwen would walk the gardens with his Grace. They’d discuss minute topics of the day, from the preferred shade of pansies to the refreshing scent of lemon. And, when the dowager woman wasn’t looking, she’d take a kiss or two from him. At least he seems to have loosened from that first, incredibly awkward meeting.

On the nights when the Duke was busy with more pressing meetings, she would sneak into his office to write. Every time, there’d be a rose red as a maiden’s blush perched upon his closed books for her. She hadn’t the heart to tell him the forward message he was no doubt unaware he left her. Though, she likes to dream that he is fully aware — particularly when the coral rose slipped into place of the others.

As their courtship slips into its fifteenth eve, the pair find their little anniversary delayed courtesy of the tempestuous storms of the year. Rain pounds so harshly against the tight windows a draft and spray of water sneak through the edge. Gwen shivers, her book trembling as she tries to huddle deeper into her body’s warmth. It was foolish to leave off her petticoats this morning…as if she hadn’t been doing such a risqué move in the past two weeks.

The movements, or perhaps the sound, catch the eye of the man hunkered over his ledgers. “Are you chilled?” he asks, already rising from the desk.

Gwen frowns at her disturbing him. It was she who snuck in while he was working, hoping to make use of the faint green light leeching across the garden. “I am well,” she tries to assure the Duke walking towards her. “The windows are a bit drafty.”

A sneer curls up his lips and he glares at the panes as if about to challenge them to a duel. “Do you require my jacket?” he asks, tugging on the suit coat hanging to his shoulders.

A flash of him stripped to only his shirt, the pale linen washed translucent in the rain, flashes through her mind. No doubt he watches the blush claim her cheeks as Gwen tries to turn away. “Then you would be chilled,” she answers. Her hand raises, about to fan the book at her flaming cheeks but that would only raise more questions.

Cullen chuckles at her answer and, forgetting his mountain of work, drops beside her on the chaise lounge. “I do not chill so easily,” he says. And the Duke of Honnleath, Lord to more titles and lands than she knows, wraps his noble fingers around her shoulders and begins to rub friction to warm her body.

How she could melt to his touch alone. His fingers — staid and solid as the man owning them — canvass from the near-elbow clear to her collarbone. They never slip lower than is needed for the task, but the touch is certain, making it all the more sensual.

Those eyes of pure amber catch hers and he whispers in his bourbon barrel voice, “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.” They are but a breath away, their lips parted as they sip the air expelled from the other. Take a kiss. There is no one here to chastise. No one to question it.

His Lordship turns, the hands that massaged her digging into the back of his neck. Gwen stares limply at her lap and says, “Forgive me for interrupting you.”

“You didn’t,” he assures her, and she glances to the obvious worrying over his neck. Cullen follows, the hand popping free and he groans. “This is not your doing. It is a matter of bills of sale, balancing the books for far too many holdings.”

“Don’t you have accountants and clerks for that?”

The Duke who could be spending his days watching horse races and playing polo snickers. “It is always best to have another pair of eyes add up the numbers…even if this time they don’t.”

“Missing some pounds?” A servant or manager nicking a few quid here and there wouldn’t surprise her. Most had a petty cash box for such an eventuality.

“No. In fact, there’s more in the account than should be. I cannot understand.”

What a curious thing to be upset about. Or perhaps its the mystery that the world won’t follow the rules no matter how many he puts down. She watches the confounding man wring his knees, his palm careful to swoop over the wounded one. One that need never have known the kiss of a musket, nor anyone else in his close family ever having to draw close to battle.

“I have a question, if it’s not too personal,” Gwen begins, before demurring out of fear that she might pry too deep.

He laughs, leans back, and stretches his arm across the back of the sofa, his hand cupping her shoulder. “Was it not you who told me there are few things more personal than our courtship? Proceed.”

“Why did you walk away from your titles?”

The snicker from his lips takes a sour turn, Cullen hunkering into his lap even as the palm remains curled to her body. “How could I leave such a lavish lifestyle? Turn my back on the opulence and importance of being the next Duke Rutherford?” His voice strains as if he’s been shouting these very questions to the heavens for months.

Gwen turns her body, only half of her bottom clinging to the edge of the lounge as she tries to peer into his eyes. “More that…” she picks up his hand in hers, her tiny fingers fanning with the scarred ones, “how did you have the strength to walk from guaranteed safety into open conflict?”

His lips part, a breath siphoning into his mouth as he watches her. Slowly, he cinches his fingers around hers, as he says, “I had no other choice.”

She raises her head to question that, the obvious choice around them, but he’s staring out across the rain-soaked garden. Just one of many lands forced upon him at birth.

“For a time, I thought that I was destined for this. That I would please my parents, take up the title to defend our lands and name when my father passed…” He stills at that, the edge of his cracked thumbnail wafting over her palm in thought. “But one day I woke and realized I couldn’t. Despite every lesson, every admonishment, every person boosting me upward, every school trying to cane me to gravy and rebuild me, I couldn’t be what they wanted of me.”

The weary head telling truths he must have hidden from his family and friends, perhaps even himself, tumbles. In a stricken voice, Cullen whispers, “I wasn’t a good enough man.”

Gwen catches his cheek in her palm, her eyes trying to find him below the ocean of pain. “That isn’t true. Not now, and I cannot imagine then.”

A heart-wrenching smile tugs at his lips, Cullen cupping her hand to his cheek. “My brother was the calm one, the patientest of us. He didn’t have the burning desire I had to change the world. To help with my bare hands instead of a wave of a pen. He was perfect for this job. And then cruelly struck down by fate in a single blow.”

Hoisting both palms out, he stares at the wear in his hands. No one who’d take them in a shake would believe they belonged to a man of the peerage, never mind a Duke. The calluses on his pads are healing, but still hard and yellowed from years on the rope. Scars circle the back, no doubt from splinters embedded then removed with teeth or whatever tool was handy. And the tip of his right pinkie is missing, taken perhaps by a shark in passing or the catch of a flintlock hammer in the wrong place.

They are beautiful hands.

Gwen lifts first the left, then the right, to her lips. With her eyes closed tight, she kisses with all her heart to the thick skin built up across his heart line. As she releases his hand for the other, Cullen rustles the kissed fingers through her hair. The tips roll about the roots, rubbing into her scalp and holding her gently in place.

Slowly, he tips her up to him, his irises nearly eclipsed by the pupils from the darkness of the storms. But a corona of brightest amber circles the edge. Those amber-eclipse eyes dance in hers, Cullen’s voice whispering in a worried gravel, “Would you have cared for me if I was merely a sailor?”

Gwen leans closer, her palm placing to his strong chest as she says, “I dare say, I’d have liked you more.”

She feels the flex of his fingers, the soft request she rise to him. Her heart thumps the reminder of no chaperone, none to protect her reputation in this dark office of the Duke. None save the gentle man pleading for her affection.

Sliding her hands up his back, Gwen pulls him to her, the pair reaching to meet lip to lip. She watches until his eyes slip closed, her own following suit. For a tick, her tongue laps along her lips, hoping they’re soft enough for his touch. The rounded tip of his nose graces her cheek, Gwen turning her chin to the right as the heat of his life washes over her.

A roll of thunder tears the skies asunder.

Both jump in their seats, Gwen whipping her head to the dark garden lit by a pulse of lightning striking the grounds. She doesn’t realize she’s trembling at the raw power of nature until his hand rolls over her shoulder. He too is staring across the dark, hoping to find the horizon to prove that this is still land. All the while, his fingers knot around her sleeve, tugging it lower and lower. Her neckline strains, revealing to the world the soft curve of skin that is her scandalous shoulders.

“Cullen,” she whispers, her fingers turning his chin from the bombastic storm to the safety of her. His lips part, those amber eclipses darting to the crumpled mess he made of her dress.

“Gwen…” he breathes, his hold on her falling open.

She leaps forward, her lips pressing with the unending hunger against his soft mouth. Quickly, his sculpted lips purse, the kiss guided and certain as his palm sweeps across her naked shoulder. Cullen’s tongue darts across her lips, Gwen inviting him in.

Heat does more than pool in her underused loins, it sings through her veins. The ache for his touch across her body causes her to shiver deep within that green dress. He seems to like it so. How would he like it on the floor?

Turning, Gwen rises as her knees dig into the cushions. Her hand cupped to Cullen’s chin, she presses him back against the armrest. All the while their lips exchange liquid hot kisses, her thighs nearly straddling his lap. One of his legs hangs off the lounge, her knee almost pressing against that stiff sinew in his trousers. She needn’t even slide forward to feel it rising against its wool prison, the member in desperate need of freedom.

“Please,” Cullen’s lips slip from hers, his amber eyes gazing heavenward as he begs. Pleads. “Please, I have wanted nothing more than to…”

A shudder shakes his body, the Duke trying to eclipse the man below her. Gwen leans to him, her breasts pooling across his chest, the hint of her cloven inlet below the thin dress pressing to the tip of his cock. With her lips poised beside his ear, she whispers, “Do you want me?”

“God, yes,” he gasps, wincing at the veracity in his tone as if it is wrong to wish for a woman.

“Then…” Her palm sweeps down to pick up his hand that’d been cupping her hip. She curls his fingers down so they trail across her waist the way one thumbs a lake’s pristine surface. As she reaches her bosom, Gwen finishes, “…have me.”

The groan begins with him, but rises in her as he envelops her breast in his palm. He grabs her chin, pulling her to his lips while his other hand tenderly massages under her gifted accouterments. When his thumb twists around her nipple, she gasps in his mouth.

“You know what you’re doing,” she surmises in an instant, her hips pleading with her to sway against the solid cock below her. But that could be too far. Could push beyond…

When he adds his other hand to her bosom, she is lost. Rising higher — her lap in his — Gwen tosses her head back and her loins cry for his. She swerves her hips, the chemise offering nearly no resistance, her dress’ silks slick from her own arousal. God save her, she can nearly feel the fullness of him even through the wool.

Suddenly, his hands cup her buttocks, both nails kneading into the cushioning and guiding her grinding. Gwen gulps, trying to find a breath as her body is consumed in flames. A guttural groan of pleasure slips from his lips, the finish heaving into a gasp, and she cries out with the realization she is causing it.

She wants him. She needs him. She would do anything for…

Cullen’s abs clench, his face rising along with his chest as he stares nearly eye to eye with the one perched in his lap. She can feel herself slipping, but he pins a palm to her back. The scarred fingers nearly stretch clear across her waist, his hand tightening to her skin. With a low growl, he presses his forehead to hers. By that single point of contact, he begins to push her back onto the lounge.

His left-hand wads up the sleeve on her dress, tugging it as low as its sister. What are his intentions? When the back of her head is cushioned by the armrest she has her answer.

The unleashed man digs both his hands under her lacy neckline, his palms finding her naked breasts below. Gwen cries out, her back arching to try and press all of her fallen flesh into his keeping. She wants his lips on her, on all of her. To caress her belly, to cup her inner thigh, to kiss her ankle as it rests upon his shoulder.

Oh God in heaven.

Her eyes open, staring up at the man highlighted only by the candlelight of the desk. Cullen’s ravenous look fades as he notices her clinging to him. “Please,” she begs, a fear fluttering in her chest. His hands pause in their kneading, though the warmth of them remain ensnared under her cups.

With a single finger, Gwen draws her hand from the piping of the misaligned jacket, down his askew vest. As she reaches for the waistband, she lifts her head and says, “Please be gentle.”

A smile raises his scar, her heart fluttering with a need to kiss it. To run her tongue through the narrow valley and nibble on his lip. But Cullen rises, his hands finally leaving the trap of her dress. He pulls upon the first of the six buttons, those bourbon eyes burning in hers.

Only the beat of rain striking the roof and her heart thundering in her ears fills the silence as one by one, the Duke unbuttons his trousers. Not once do his eyes shift, his biceps flexing even below the coat and shirt. Gwen runs her fingers over them, nibbling on her lip at the power in the muscles she cannot see.

The final button falls open, Cullen cupping his brandished cock in hand as he presses his forehead to hers. Together they fall back onto the lounge, his lips parting breaths above hers but not touching. She can feel his vast shaft nestling in the folds of her dress right above where it belongs. Brushing the tips of his fingers over her forehead and down her cheek, he curls them around her jaw.

“Always,” Cullen whispers, raising her to his lips for a toe-curling kiss. While she flits the tip of her tongue over that scar dug across his perfect face, Gwen presses her hands to his back. Cullen slips from her nibble, his lips finding succor in her neck and down her throat.

In a flash, his hands gather her skirts, raising the hemline from scandalous to a fallen woman. He pushes forward, his knees foisting her thighs further and further apart while she tries to meet him. Fingers flutter across her opening, Gwen gulping as just the tip of his shortened pinkie winds its way from the bottom of her folds to the slick top.

“Mmmm,” he moans, his lips beside her ear as he licks them in pleasure. “Your heat is driving me mad.”

With all the tenderness he promised, Cullen guides the crown of his arbor vitae to her opening. Gwen swallows, savoring in the feel of his own heat perched upon piercing her. The girth nearly overwhelms her, her toes curling and mouth parting as he thrusts himself deeper into virgin waters.

There he waits, his sword nearly to the hilt, while she tests herself upon it. “How,” Cullen growls, the edge of his teeth scraping over her jaw. Gwen shivers, her muscles bearing down upon him. “How gentle do you wish me to be?”

“Harder,” she instructs even as her heart leaps into her throat. Will it hurt? They always said it would hurt.

“Mmm…” The teeth nibble along her jaw, reaching the chin. As he softly bites down, his hips pull back — dragging the full thrill from her — and then deep in once. Gwen’s entire world trembles. The thrusts repeat, her head tipping back, the hair she spent all morning on falling to pieces. Cullen’s lips work down her bosom, his chin trying to pull the neckline lower.

Why didn’t she remove her dress? Why didn’t she think to..?

“Oh…oh god!” Gwen cries out. “Faster,” she orders, her body rising to his rhythm. She wraps her legs around his waist, cinching him in so he can plumb her to the very depths.

The thrusting increases to match her erratic heartbeat, every bound of his cock bringing another cry of pleasure from her lips. She wants more. She wants it to never end. She needs…

Gwen wraps her hands around his head, smothering his face in her bosom as her body strikes pleasure across every center of her being. God, it feels of a warm wave cresting at the height of the ocean’s swell. The awesome power of nature’s hand folding over to consume and send her spiraling into the abyss.

She rises from the welcoming darkness to find her body quivering around his, herself clamping around him. Golden curls pile across her exposed cleavage, his face turned to the side for air. But the smile on his lips leaps to hers and he presses a kiss to her breast.

“We could stop?” he asks, his head rising from where she pinned him, the eyes hungry but his words cautious.

No. She didn’t want to. If this was to be the end of her, then she needed it all.

Gwen thrusts down with her hips, Cullen groaning as she begins to glide him in and out of her. His knees shuffle, pinning tighter to her hips. One hand grabs at her back, hoisting her up as both lean up. The cock inside of her strains her trembling core, becoming even tighter a fit as he grips to the small of her back and holds her forehead to his.

The heat she thought chased in her orgasm revives, Gwen gasping for air. Cullen’s lips whiffle beside hers, sweat percolating off the brow slipping against hers. His beautiful amber eyes are closed tight, a grimace of concern on his face as he continues to pump into her.

“Please, please,” the words sputter from him, the bridge of his nose gliding along hers as he begs, “please let it be.”

Thunder shakes the walls, lightning snapping apart the skyline as Cullen groans with the oncoming strike of his own agony of bliss. He falls to her, his lips whispering prayers against her cheek while he fills her with his pearly shower. The heaviness of his body pressing on hers is nothing to the consequences spiraling around them.

Gwen can taste the bitter dose in the air, but she pulls her fingers through his golden hair and refuses to face the truth of her actions. His labored breathing dots against her naked breast, the steam of his lungs warming her from the chill of the outside world. Slowly, he unearths himself from inside her, his face leaving her bosom.

She grits her teeth, fearing a wary look in his eyes from the woman who debased herself without a second’s hesitation. Only the tick of the carriage clock upon the mantle breaks the silence, each second compounding as the Duke tucks himself away to button his trousers. After he’s secured, he parts his palms back through his hair, the curls wild when the tie slipped from its place.

To her surprise, it is a wry smile upon his face, and an exhausted one as well. He leans back on his side of the lounge and one hand cups along Gwen’s waist. Without any effort, he tugs her from her reclining position up to curl against his chest. Her cheek nestles above his heart, the steady thrum of it and warmth from his arm wrapped around her calming her fears.

When his lips place a kiss to her hair, a whimper rolls from her throat. The moment is perfect as is, she need not ruin it with whats and ifs. But…

“If I…” she places a hand above his heart, her eyes swiveling to find the weary ambers of his. “If I fill with your child,” her hand flutters over her empty stomach, “what would you do?”

“Marry you,” he insists without a moment’s hesitation.

Gwen smiles, her head bobbing to know he wasn’t waiting for the perfect moment to shed his gentlemen skin. “And if I do not carry your babe?” she asks, her teeth biting down on her lip.

His hand curls around her chin, pulling her higher from her repose until their foreheads meet. “I would marry you still,” Cullen says, his words warming her heart and soul.

Drawing her palm over the scruff of his jawline, Gwen places a sweet kiss to his lips. Cullen returns it, nipping against her tender lips to do so. Her exhausted body wants to curl up in his safe arms, to slumber away in the cocoon of his warmth. But she has to press him one last time.

“Is that a true proposal?”

“I…” his bright lips snort and rise in a smile. “I suppose it is. I’d hoped to think of something more romantic, but…”

Gwen glances her finger to his lips, silencing his self-doubt. “There is nothing more romantic than promising to care for me when I am most vulnerable.”

“You are,” his tender hand he offered to her cups her cheek, keeping her eyes burning in his. Another smile wipes away whatever he had planned to speak. “As you say, but if my sister asks, I proposed to you in the garden while down on one knee.”

A sunny laugh chases away the last of the gloom lurking in her heart. Gwen snuggles tighter to the man who trusts her with his heart. The soothing beat of it calls to her, lulling her to a slumber of serenity she hasn’t known in her life. Her voice, drowsy with sleep, rises one last time, “I love you.”

Cullen holds her tightly in his arms, his words to her soft as a butterfly’s wing. “I love you too.”

While the thunders continue across the flooded land, the pair of them fall into a nap in each other’s arms, knowing that a promise of great things await when they wake.


End file.
